included in the dancing
of a sakura,
from when it spun from its tree
to the moment it lay still.
Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem was created for the prompt given at Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribblings prompt, Liminal Space.
Featuring poetic beats, lyrical storytelling, and other assorted jazz.
Sakura
What magic to be
included in the dancing
of a sakura,
from when it spun from its tree
to the moment it lay still.
included in the dancing
of a sakura,
from when it spun from its tree
to the moment it lay still.
April Can (2021)
April can be kind.
April can be cruel.
April is
April after all.
April must be
at home in Alice’s Wonderland—
October’s petal frocked twin,
hiding her teeth behind a teacup.
April leaps
up in yellows, pinks, and greens,
determined to grow out of spite
But April can cry
right alongside you,
April can be cruel.
April is
April after all.
April must be
at home in Alice’s Wonderland—
October’s petal frocked twin,
hiding her teeth behind a teacup.
April leaps
up in yellows, pinks, and greens,
determined to grow out of spite
of the winter before she arrived.
April is especially hard
this year, demanding a new start
from an earth whipped sore
April is especially hard
this year, demanding a new start
from an earth whipped sore
while trying its best to live
after the dying winter.
But April can cry
right alongside you,
keeping company in quiet mists
or keening with you
in inconsolable storms.
Song Choice: You Know Where to Find Me by Imogen Heap
Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, April.
I Pity the Poor Old Bird
I pity the poor old bird
who didn’t value the strength of the tree
that sheltered her from the storms,
and instead spent her nights
lamenting over another
tree that would not bend
to cherish her near so well.
I pity the poor old bird
who knows nothing
other than playing
at being a harpy,
befouling every space
unlucky enough to know her presence.
It is clear she envies
the kestrel and her mate,
lovingly paired and partnered,
with no wingbeat taken for granted—
the kestrel who knows the joy
of the welcoming blue sky,
the stars, and rising sun,
who has flown with true companions
that were only taken from her by death,
and not driven away by spite.
I pity the poor old bird,
who when she finally falls
stiff and cold from her perch,
will fall
unmissed,
unloved,
and unremembered,
save for the worms
that will find plenty of room to burrow
in the cavity of her empty chest.
who didn’t value the strength of the tree
that sheltered her from the storms,
and instead spent her nights
lamenting over another
tree that would not bend
to cherish her near so well.
I pity the poor old bird
who knows nothing
other than playing
at being a harpy,
befouling every space
unlucky enough to know her presence.
It is clear she envies
the kestrel and her mate,
lovingly paired and partnered,
with no wingbeat taken for granted—
the kestrel who knows the joy
of the welcoming blue sky,
the stars, and rising sun,
who has flown with true companions
that were only taken from her by death,
and not driven away by spite.
I pity the poor old bird,
who when she finally falls
stiff and cold from her perch,
will fall
unmissed,
unloved,
and unremembered,
save for the worms
that will find plenty of room to burrow
in the cavity of her empty chest.
I hope those who hold you fondly in their mind have a true and clear image of you.
I hope you are seen clearly for who you are.
May you never look into a mirror without seeing your true face.
Song Choice: Mean by Taylor Swift and I've No More F*cks To Give by Thomas Benjamin Esq.
Liner Notes for this Groove: This poem was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, Bird is the Word.
Once A King
My dog was once king
of the elementary school bus stop
every morning.
He was a fair monarch,
granting belly rub privileges to all
the children before they started their school day.
But the corner has been empty
of adoring subjects. If they see him,
they wave from behind windows now.
And the once king of the bus stop
makes his rounds near an empty playground,
howling at the other exiled kings and queens
who also miss the noisy old days.
of the elementary school bus stop
every morning.
He was a fair monarch,
granting belly rub privileges to all
the children before they started their school day.
But the corner has been empty
of adoring subjects. If they see him,
they wave from behind windows now.
And the once king of the bus stop
makes his rounds near an empty playground,
howling at the other exiled kings and queens
who also miss the noisy old days.
Liner Notes for This Groove: This poem was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt given at Poets and Storytellers United, Beloved Companions.
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