It has been our routine To visit Doctors' clinic Since he was operated For raptured aorta Brought by aneurysm
That happened in 2008 13 years have passed Nothing changed Last December he had another surgery A flank excavation To remove blood clots As a result from bleeding When he suffered from kidney injury This was not a major surgery But still as risky because of his condition
Today we went for another Visit To the hospital and his Doctor For his protime The INR is high and another adjustment Has been made to the dosage of his warfarin Through the years We've learnt to adapt to this routine We've learnt to live with our health issues And trying our best to work for our health and well being
Posted: 19th April 2021 4:04pm
Edited: 19th April 2021 4:13pm
Fire of Insight
Joined 8th July 2019 Forum Posts: 490
Writing the Storm
trembling lips will speak to love of loss, of fear, of death; broken hearts and hurt thereof, upon hope’s final breath
crowded minds will ponder gifts of time, of faith, of space; squandered days and subtle shifts behind regret’s disgrace
leaking pens will spill the words of each, of them, of all; anxious souls and restless swords, beneath the tempest squall
rain surrenders to the storm art transcends intended form
55 unique words
Posted: 19th April 2021 5:30pm
Guardian of Shadows
Joined 27th Feb 2014 Forum Posts: 509
(19 of 30—Official DUP NaPo/GloPoWrimo2021)
sonnets among my scribbles
bus driver sonnet #19
he knows each bend by name along the route that navigates him, every living day, past grazing cows and pigs in disarray, to where the country vendors sell their fruit. he knows whose stop is at the ackee tree, who debarks at the broken iron bridge; he picks up Iceman with his soft drink fridge and lets the children ride to school for free. he takes a swig of liquor at the square, and naps until the market women come. then, fired by the courage of his rum, zigzags his way along the thoroughfare.
the hearts of great men flutter in their chests until, at terminus, the old bus rests.
I worked so hard to change things, though it seems these transformations are minuscule.
What the fuck do you want?
Please try grasping hold with both hands some sort of introspection: a mirror, one glimpse at yourself...
I'm tired, discouraged and broken down—
Absolute burden should not rest on me.
“Creation which cannot express itself becomes madness" ~Anais Nin
Posted: 19th April 2021 7:31pm
Edited: 19th April 2021 7:31pm
Tyrant of Words
Joined 22nd July 2019 Forum Posts: 60
My silent hero Weekly auto scoops my Bins
Overflowing with negative Insults In every form imaginable
My own worst sabateur It’s no surprise my posture is bent Like the Hallows Eve crone
My Silent hero You collect my weekly snippets Of self loathing and dismay
And leave behind A clean and empty bin
Promising the potential of filling It up again only this week...
Perhaps there is a remote chance I might top it off with Self appreciation instead
I like my garbage man
(50 unique words)
Posted: 19th April 2021 8:16pm
Fire of Insight
Joined 18th Sep 2018 Forum Posts: 241
I am the mastermind That is highly sought after The only one of my kind Who’s more cunning than an actor I topple the wanted charts And am more elusive than Waldo My pen creates works of fine arts That can only be described as Bravo! My craft is immense With its own viral attitude Clutching you by the throat in suspense Superseding its own longitude and latitude The fire traces from my ink Glues the blades to my lines So when its read you’ll need a shrink To sop up what’s left of your minds Everybody wants a piece Well I’m sorry I don’t share I’m not for sale, rent, or lease And to be quite frank I really couldn’t care I’m a ghost that’s on the run With a pen and notepad on my back Thirty days of writing ain’t no fun So I stay wanted, till team Napo wants me back
Posted: 19th April 2021 8:43pm
Joined 25th Sep 2019 Forum Posts: 75
19 of 30
Sweats to blame..
Because it's days like this, When all is a little addled, That only Rage can surpass, "Just another bomb track" To keep your body jacked, Your mind on track, And when music stops; The momentum slows, Petering… towards, Another Cup Of tea? Repeat, replay, Get through the day. I wish, I had more to say for you today, But the poetry's been spent, In the pumping of blood, The perspiring, Of sweat.
Posted: 19th April 2021 8:52pm
Fire of Insight
Joined 1st Jan 2018 Forum Posts: 581
A custard cream dream
When life is fraught with daily drudge commitments just a what you can fudge. Sit down and take life`s hard edge off, with that indulgence, hard and soft. A cup of tea and a custard cream dunk it quick and in a flash, your mind flies from the daily task. Escapism in the fillings seam the biscuit holds a wanton theme. Heavens confection in that oblong consuming it can do no wrong. For its delights, never flattering the thighs may cut those daydreams down to size. So when the shitstorm hits the fan, sweet sugar snacks are in demand. Your life is full of woe`s. partake in its pale yellow glow I jest dear friend. No other cookie could pretend no rival, claim the crown of crumbs. Ecstasy, between finger and thumb
Posted: 19th April 2021 8:56pm
Edited: 19th April 2021 9:50pm
Tyrant of Words
Joined 20th Mar 2015 Forum Posts: 5062
[ Dreamscape And Nightmares ] Of Course Corrections
When I asked the bookstore clerk if they had any books by "Jeffrey Bates" the answer was, No
Not surprising, considering I had dreamt the person's name being mentioned during a book promotion
However, there was a "Jefferson D Bates" who authored Precision In Writing originally published in 1978
the gist of which was about excising excess language in anything written ---government documents notably being the worst known literary offenses to Humanity, as well as the Humanities
An item not normally stocked; this handbook required special ordering ---never saw it on a shelf or in a catalog to begin with for those of you thinking that's how I ended up dreaming about the man
Just get to the point when writing
Of course! And advice can't get any simpler than that; it's what helped fashion me into the poet I am today
especially after a disasterous attempt at long winded fiction which was my dream job
I was born to be a writer; that much is obvious
but without direction, you may end up going the wrong way or just plain nowhere with your talents
My other accounts at DUP are Magnetron , Anarchitect , Psycotic Mastermind , & Mary Walker
Posted: 19th April 2021 9:06pm
Joined 30th June 2016 Forum Posts: 456
Ode To Night IX
Carry me forth, O sturdy night in branches of your knowing which splits apart as water over rocks returning to its eternal self as a wound clock. From early day you carry me along toward this fortress, purposeful and strong. The setting sun announces your debut and in your midst my dreams are coming true. I wait for day to ebb, and only then for you. Carry me forth, O sturdy night.
54 unique words
'I am not mad' -Salvador Dali
Posted: 19th April 2021 10:00pm
Edited: 19th April 2021 10:31pm - edited 2 times
Joined 12th Apr 2018 Forum Posts: 54
used to write like Asimov
now he writes like sketch lines old hand-held anger
in the letter tails greyscale words
five o'subtle colour shadowed dotting like fireflies forming
bare bones of a picture letting imagination
play amongst the strokes sparse met implication
he trusts our tiny light trails to follow on his own
in well-landed flinging of wildflower seeds
growing messages for deer in the woods
... or so they say
Posted: 19th April 2021 10:35pm
Guardian of Shadows
Joined 10th Oct 2009 Forum Posts: 6575
#19. April 19th.
Of Fallen Kings
Wretched and wraithed Beholden to the ring Our will subsumed To such a little thing.
Our pride was our downfall Desire to cling to life Proved as an undoing Bringing us only strife.
Now we wander abroad Ever searching, seeking All efforts in vain Frustrated we vent shrieking.
One we were might kings And beholden to none How far we have fallen Merely slaves to One.
(Unique words: 53.)
Posted: 19th April 2021 11:31pm
Fire of Insight
Joined 18th Sep 2017 Forum Posts: 587
You don’t seem as one to gamble Should I reintroduce myself Like first impressions are the eyes preamble
Taking calculated risks based on the chance you can control Cut your loses with everyone that you write off Self-preservation of the reckless soul Hardcore on the outside but inside your soft
What will find you humble in the end No one’s got a fix on life Everyone’s got an edge But what’s your angle with your knife?
Cut up or cut down You draw blood either way And all I’m left with are the things I wish that I could say…
Posted: 19th April 2021 11:50pm
Edited: 19th April 2021 11:51pm
Joined 29th Mar 2017 Forum Posts: 1017
You hadn’t touched me in years. Hadn’t lifted my lid, touched your fingers to my keys in more than a decade.
I was little more than an expensive bookshelf. The only touch you offered was when you used lemon oil to take care of the dust, put away the stacks of books, or when you’d snap the lid closed if one of the boys lifted it and their timid fingers pressed a few keys.
I was thankful for those moments when they risked letting me sing. They risked getting into trouble, risked your temper, for just a few notes. Maybe they knew…
Knew that you needed me, needed to feel my singing vibrating in your chest, your feet. Needed to let loose all that rage you keep locked away.
And then one day, one absolutely ordinary day, you sat down. Lifted my lid and stared through me in silence; not seeing me, but the past. Your hurt.
I wanted to take it away. I wanted to fill you with all those glowing memories of late nights playing Piano Man and Landslide and all those Shostakovich concertos.
I heard you sniff, then you quietly closed my lid. Got up. Stood back and screamed. Pressed your hands on either side of the music stand and raged until your voice cracked. Broke.
But then, then you sat back down. Lifted my lid and spread your fingers across my keys.
Do you remember the first thing you played? From the depths of your memory, your shaking hands and cracking voice produced a version of an old hymn. The one you sang at your grandpaw’s funeral. The one you held to even when your faith was gone.
Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth. Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide. Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow, blessings all mine with ten thousand beside.
And we wept, Grace. We wept and I watched as you picked up the first broken piece.
**And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute, but I love him best of all.**
Posted: 19th April 2021 11:59pm
Joined 31st Dec 2015 Forum Posts: 800
I cannot tell the difference Between fuchsia and magenta All I know is what I learned From watering those Ballerina flowers Pirouetting on air Held by long delicate arcs No lantern traps Of anglerfish Just that tender offering A hanging garden Robed in contrast Lady in black Deeply blushing sepals Grasping ebony corollas