She knew well
the manner of giving,
knew not to ask
and how to survive on smiles
amid the indebtedness,
an affliction from a childhood obligated
to some person, preacher or other
And with not a kind hand among them
she found duty bred fear in its resistance.
Love always ended like the rains
that turned the pavements black
where she'd run
all plimsolls and pearls
wearing pain like purple
undergarments that caught on fickle winds.
She wondered if they
ever noticed the off-notes
like when her legs moved out of tune
and did they feel her bristle
on their faces of expected gratitude
or see how daubing her
with their concrete greys of added responsibility
only sheathed her
in a pin stiff frost of non-negotiable.
All she ever wanted
was to be receptive
and (not just) responsive
but just got lost in the doing,
feeling her way
through sex and vice
with words that didn't suffice,
losing sight in the toughs
of their what was and wasn't enoughs,
where bitter losses were lonely
and negotiating on her knees
never did feel good.
that neither their sunshine nor rain
would quench her thirst,
she reasoned that she'd always struggle to
accept their claims to her Love
while she still owed it to herself.
How do you decide, choose your design, find its guise,
give it a face, surrender to the poem's own
and choose the poem's alignment?
an answer forms:
this alignment idea,
you think it simple,
what your inquiry means
alignment - the appropriate relative position
we live in relative position to each other, our poems too, for they are but written synapses of our close captioned interactions, seemingly random, but assuredly not, as we invest in ourselves, seeking the mysterious appropriate answer
from the Theory of Poetic Relativity
i love your question; hold it to my nostrils,
smell the coffee aroma wake up blast inherent;
kiss its robust childlike cheeks for the simple soulfulness essential arousal;
for you see sir you have found
the appropriate position that relates us, our mindful words;
answer no good, wholly insufficient?
as i close this quick cooked to perfection laboratory solution, take note
the earth has moved
our hearts have beaten a measly thousand times
time and space have appropriated our prior
when you return years hence this poem's shape will perforce have moved. for words are weathered flux constant and yet inherently unchanged except for the part of us that changes with every re-reading
and what was
right before has left and the center has moved again
This is probably just an insane thing of mine, but I cannot stand the center aligned formatted poetry. I want to read the poetry, but why center? I want to know why it is center aligned? If it is a metaphor for how poetry could/should serve as a balancing point, a countervailing force for a point, perhaps I could understand...but so many poems center aligned, I don't know, I am probably missing something.
A right aligned poem? Perhaps I could understand, if the content was asking me to revolt, to revolutionize, to counter the status quo. But a centered poem? What does the alignment mean?
anyway, it has been a long time since I've been around, keep writing, hope you are well.
Oftentimes and readily swapping
something for nothing, she would lay
against the breakwaters: knobbled,
granite knuckles that quelled
most treacherous tides. And under
a cast of navy blue at the last of evening,
she'd look back to the age of short kilts and bovver boots,
to the hardihood of her cherry-black lips
and to those nights
in the house up the hill from the promenade,
where she first went all the way.
It started with the seat,
a discarded scaffold plank.
sanded and stained,
it knew well how to brook weight.
She'd sawn its legs
from an old, farmhouse kitchen table;
footings that had upheld family.
Revealing was the remnant of layered ply,
(gifted to her from an ignoble guy )
transformed into a medium for comfort;
She decked it with painted slats,
salvaged from the base of a double bed
that she believes bolstered
solace and love.
A shock of breaths roar through her ears;
like a wave displaced into smithereens
born to hunt the horn of the motherland.
Floundering on tarmac paths
that fracture her green baize,
a thick of drag
at the crossing of the ways;
she checks online for how to endure;
hammering nature into submission
in a surge of dirge under false tenure.
Grateful at last, for remembering how to jump.
The holes in her gaberdine gape,
she doesn't like what she sees
And lost from the mantra
she angles left to the dead,
where the bliss of vice
like twilight, temporary,
quells the advancing war in her head
to a passing storm in her drowning lung,
where happens she cries when she's drunk.