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642 · Nov 2019
Freezing for the Bus
WC Wrights Nov 2019
It feels like a cat
clawing its way up my leg
digging into my back
cutting into my spine
producing a shake in my entire frame
traveling up into my teeth
chattering as I wait
for the next bus.
An homage to the early morning bus routine that all students (college and not) go through.
318 · Oct 2019
Fly On the Wall
WC Wrights Oct 2019
Fluttering
on the walls
of your mind,

watching,
waiting for you,
invisible
WC Wrights Nov 2019
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly-
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her *******,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-clothes on my forehead,
and then led me out into the air light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift – not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-toned lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
This poem is from someone who I've adopted as my personal, digital and written poetic mentor. I also highly recommend you hear him read this poem. It's very moving to hear people read their own poems.
248 · Nov 2019
Walking for Days
WC Wrights Nov 2019
Once I heard something strange, almost unexplainable.
"I hate walking," said Nicole, my brother's girlfriend.
Walking is a living thing, non-reversible, unable to refund.

"I just can't stand it," she said. Well, yes, you should be moving,
moving your legs joining into that movement, that freedom
of absolute expression that boundaries race to form around

In fact, when you put the one foot after the next
it creates a ripple effect which effortlessly continues on and on
"It seems like such a waste of time," but only for the bunny

his batteries died out, drums cracked, sunglasses lost
he seemed lonely until he saw me walking by

"I love walking," I said. And then I left.
This was a conversation that I had with my family. They didn't understand why I walked everyday. I did.
224 · Nov 2019
Can We Fix It?
WC Wrights Nov 2019
asked the little doll, his blue overalls
and perky personality answering
his own question

I would take another stance: sometimes.

Some words are best left unsaid, but once said
those words are never forgotten

Not when meemaw passes away
or when papa follows her
into the great grassy patch in the ground
overlooking a lively city
filled with all the people
who never knew them and didn't care to

People wound deep
others can help by sticking in
their pieces of metal
as they dance their ballet-like dances

Fewer times than fingers
have I seen things restored
to their happy and bouncy state
when the depth of a fountain of love
spills out and fills up the holes of sadness
I heard someone say that everything was fixable once. This is my answer to that.
188 · Nov 2019
Illusions When Tired
WC Wrights Nov 2019
Sometimes, I can see them
shimmering on the edges

My vision blurs
not able to be straight on

Foreign thoughts and feelings
struggle and fight against me

Blinking hurts
even making the tiredness worse

Then a light sparkles
then another and another

Suddenly there's dancing spots
eddying around me

I try to connect one to the next
spark flitting across my room

There's too many
I get confused

The lights all begin to gather into one
beam of light as I awake the next morning
Written about a phenomenon that happens whenever I try to stay awake at night.
145 · Nov 2019
Music Is What it Is
WC Wrights Nov 2019
Music offers up a look into the human psyche - the tell tale signs of an individual's life. It whispers and gladdens your mind. Follows you around. Travels through the blood stream, even infecting the white blood cells until your soul is helpless to do anything, but react, but become, but be...rhythm. Sometimes, the color blue comes out with its somewhat jazzy undertones and soft sounds. At other times, a screech rips out which buries the listener under its weight, unable to hold back the strings from joining in. However, there is always a time when it reaches its peak, when the lengths and the waves all join together in mutual harmony across lives, time, and tiny spaces, filling them up with stomping on the ground or questionable lyrics sung at the top of organs while sitting, belting whole lives away. But, at an unsuspecting time, in an unfamiliar place it slips in as a gentle swipe. Like tranquility on silken wings, it glides around, reminding, easing itself in the last section of everything, the outward part, one that is not touched easily and cannot be bought. Then it becomes irreplaceable as anything without is silence. The lack of life.
Music is a big part of my life and my prose poem hopefully reflects that.
141 · Nov 2019
Who Decides Your Life?
WC Wrights Nov 2019
Little screens often determine whole destinies
people, places, personal items
all graded together on virtual papers
no one ever passes or gets high marks

Faceless denizens of actual realities
unidentified, but still vocal
leaving words of anger in their wake
all over others journals of life

One person breathes in and out
walking, running, sleeping
eating, even laughing sometimes
looking at the sky and smiling to themselves
Who's in control of your life?
WC Wrights Nov 2019
I looked around.
Me? A short, orange-skinned
green-haired singing little person?

If anything, I was the one wearing the hat
doing everything in halves
watching children eating my life.

No, I don't sing. I scare away
vermicious k'nids as they crawl into my space
telling me to SCRAM, but are obliterated in my atmosphere

However, when pressed to give a reply
to the nebulous question of the entirety
of my existence, squished into a few words, I said

"I'm a whangdoodle." The one creature
who is as undefined as the aliens in space
but is well-known to children who love stories.
This is my answer to my childhood.
130 · Nov 2019
I Don't Know
WC Wrights Nov 2019
Are you asking me out?
Do you like me?
How do you know my favorite color?
Why do you care about me?
Did you want to eat there?
Should I be your girlfriend?
Should I marry you?
So you didn't want to move?
Why can't I have kids?
How come I feel sick all the time?
Do you want to go to the doctor with me?
Are you sure I should start the treatments?.....

Can you live without me?
All questions that are answered very simply.

— The End —