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| Blue Rain by Sharon Mollerus from WikiCommons |
Ashes of the past I used to live
is falling,
instead of rain.
Serenity is the evidence that
the past is angry with me.
Wind stops blowing,
only silent fragments of passion that I used to have
are soaring,
as if rain pierces me.
***
Yuu Ikeda (she/they) is a Japan based poet and writer. She writes poetry on her website. https://poetryandcoffeedays.wordpress.com/ You can find her on Twitter and Instagram : @yuunnnn77
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| Sun rays shining through trees in forest during sundown Photo by Johannes Plenio from Pexels |
The setting sun bleeds gold between the pines
that darken in the breeze, and I am not
the person that I was when I began this thought.
Here, sitting with me, Sandy–not the same
but someone new. And Sally, Mona, William,
and Diane: Are you still you? Right: no.
And yes. All vying for a space in my
small closet of a brain. Though not born sad,
I do believe that all things end in sadness.
Am I wrong? I suck my gut in, lift
my chins, heave out my chest–but I am melting
like a movie witch, and everything’s
all smashed together, morphing as it mashes.
This rough draft of a life: a poet’s hash.
***
Thomas Zimmerman teaches English and directs the Writing Center at Washtenaw Community College, Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA. His latest book is Dead Man's Quintet (Cyberwit, 2023). https://thomaszimmerman.wordpress.com/
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| This way to the pixie dust. Peter Pan outside The World of Vintage T-Shirts, Melrose Avenue Los Angeles, California by Lorie Shaull from Flickr |
There is an entity living behind my couch.
Occasionally it will grab a neck hair
freaking out the vascalting stoners.
I went to the local witchdoctor for advice
yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!
A premium of shrunken heads
quintessentially lined a back shelf.
I excused myself from any logical involvement,
purchased a bag of pixie dust instead.
Spreading this along the baseboard
of my homogenous domicile,
I suddenly became engulfed in paperwork
floating precipiteously ad nauseam.
You can now send your work (poems, short prose, opinions) or your illustrations @ urticalitblog at gmail dot com
See the link to the guidelines page on the right-hand side for more information.
***
Vous pouvez désormais proposer vos textes (poèmes, prose courte, courts billets d'humeur) ou vos illustrations urticalitblog à gmail point dom
Voir le lien sur la colonne de droite pour obtenir plus d'informations sur quoi envoyer.
La piscine au contenu épais s'est transformée en fleuve profond, dont les remous font remonter le limon.
La vie de "il" compressée, là sous nos yeux telle un César, en une journée de 24 h. Ses vécus, déductions, constatations, jugements, convictions, tout ça se jette dans un pogo des mots géant, sans vraiment queue ni tête. Vue directe sur un esprit en escalier ; labyrinthe des méandres de son cerveau qui a analysé, testé, congédié tous les mythes de la vie, les mensonges pieux, "ciment" de la vie en troupeau.
Tous?
Il lui reste accroché aux basques le mythe le plus coriace de "les gens". Ça rend à "il" un côté humain. Assez pour se laisser prendre dans les filets du mètre étalon de l'arnaque du mythe suprême.
Ou pas...
C'est puissant, dérangeant (ce con de "il" a réussi à me faire pleurer tant sa description est juste; du déluge de questions avec ou sans réponses, rebondissements, exploration de chaque hypothèse, tourbillon neuronal; la fatigue que ça provoque et le pansement que représente le sommeil, définitif ou non. Ça m'a un peu fait replonger, haha.) On ne quitte pas ce livre quand on le ferme; en tout cas pas moi...
Ifpalide
