As I move nearer ...

 

As I move nearer to death, memory gathers the scraps of my life.

A monostitch (one-line) poem for NaPoWriMo; a memory poem for Poetic Asides 'Poem A Day.'  I made my one-liner an American Sentence.

Glimmers

‘A glimmer is the exact opposite of a trigger–it is some kind of cue, either internal or external, that brings one back to a sense of joy or safety.’

Gold light radiating from that orb in the sky just before sunset.

Looking into the face of a beloved friend – here now, or pictured.

Immense trees filling the sky; or really, any trees. Truly, all trees.

My best-loved books: just a glimpse of one's cover and I want to hug it.

Memories, of large and little joyous moments, filling my long life.

Everyone I ever loved / all those who loved me (cats and dogs too).

Reconnecting often with poetry, flowing into or from me.

Sunshine; sparkling silver rivers; soaring mountains; sweetness in the mouth;

sudden storms with swift, searing lightning; stillness; the suchness of the this.

Inspired by Rommy’s prompt for Friday Writings #86 at Poets and Storytellers United. I decided to do this as an acrostic. Then I decided to make each line an American Sentence (17 syllables). Then I realised the letter S needed two lines. Note: They wouldn't work as stand-alone American Sentences, however, as each line depends on the mental inclusion of the word 'Glimmers' which it is defining. I'd need to rewrite them. I'm happy to leave them as they are, to make one whole poem together.

After the Visit

It’s all cloudy skies here, 

dreary Sundays dragging on, 

now that he’s gone.

I’ve been a happy Hermit,

my fine solitude

eased mostly by cats.

But after some days

communing with my son, again

finding how we match –

the pleasure of it ...

now I'm feeling myself 

unsettled, discomposed –

shrugging back inside

that cloak of self-sufficience

I thought was my skin.

Below: my son and me out to lunch during his visit.

Written for my own prompt, 'The Visitor' for Friday Writings #60 at Poets and Storytellers United. 

(Each verse is an American sentence – just because I often like to give myself formal games to play, too.)

13 Things I Liked Today

1. I exchanged a number of cuddles with my little cat; we both purred.
2. The thrill of receiving some wonderful blurb quotes for my new memoir.
3. Gardener Lucy came to weed – I won’t be growing random rogue trees!
4. At last I resumed my exercising – ahhh! why did I wait so long?
5. Judith texted love hearts to ask if I’m feeling better; I am now!
6. Email exchange with my brother; we start to go deep into our past.
7. Confronted unpleasant truths about me, accepted them with a laugh.
8. Today was a little cooler, a welcome respite yet still sunny.
9. Read a book of weird, obscure (visionary) poems; liked it anyway.
10. Chose not to finish reading a book of banal nature poetry.
11. Began listening to an audio-book by Carmel Bird; enjoyed.
12. I ate a bit healthier than I have lately – or a bit less unhealthy.
13. I remembered love I have been given, glad to hold it to my heart.

(I decided to make them all 'American sentences' this time – 17 syllables.)

Sharing at the latest Thursday 13.

Image by at Pierre Bamin at Unsplash.

Remembrances

The light in your greeny-blue eyes, reminder of a summer ocean.

The way one lock of your hair always used to stick up, rebellious.

Your freckles, your flushed cheeks, your whole face lighting up with sudden laughter.

How fervently you would debate a point to understand it better.

Your hands moving swiftly through books and papers, or stilled and warm in mine.

The time I leaned back against your chest, your cradling arms around my waist.

All the lines that you wrote me: letters, poems, and that book inscription.

The path we walked our last day together, sunlight warm on our faces.

Written in response to Magaly's request for a list poem, in Friday Writings #40 at Poets and Storytellers United. Each item in my list is an American Sentence, the form created by Allen Ginsberg.

Also a Path – Short poems in February (2021)

Also a Path

Micropoems in February (2021)

my ocean

the great blue Pacific

is also a path

#haiku

12/2/21

piercing –

that moment of pain

for dead loves

this Valentine’s Day 

then I recall the joy

#tanka

14/2/21

during COVID

Moon Calendar quietly

gets two years old

#senryu

16/2/21

sneezing

I get out the bedsox —

high summer!

#senryu

17/2/21

You may live to 200

while appearing 30,

said the angel.

But I thought I’d become

more and more lonely 

for old friends; I declined.

#American sentences x2 arranged as verse.

21/2/21

When the kids

were swift and mischievous

I Dalek-spoke

‘Exterminate! Exterminate!’

They merely rolled their eyes.

#kyoka

21/2/21

Walking Away from 2020

Walking Away from 2020

Can we walk away
from this apocalypse?
And if we might,
where to?

In the time of COVID,
walking away
consists of
staying at home.

Our poor minds
in our lonely heads
now walk away
into strange places.

We are walking away
from the selves
we used to be —
collectively.

We do not know
our destination:
the road, or all roads,
uncharted.

In the great cities
streets are empty
without movement
as if useless.
 
 
Although this was written to my own prompt for Weekly Scribblings #40 at Poets and Storytellers United, I had trouble getting into it until I gave myself a structure. When the first couple of verses were all I had, it was fairly easy to turn them into 17-syllable American sentences, but arranged in four lines each, and keep that form for the rest of the poem. (Yes I know the first verse is technically two sentences. Hey, even Allen Ginsberg, who invented the American Sentence, did that occasionally.)

I think about you: American sentences

I think about you: American sentences

(Observations on the foibles of human behaviour – more senryu than haiku-like – these are meant to be read separately, not as a sequence.)

My past relationships taught me love has many forms and many ways.

How difficult and hard to reach she has become since her bereavement.

That girl with the sweet voice is always using it to stir up trouble.

They contest the will, wanting to hang on to more of their dead father.

It’s not that I’m still grief-struck – just that I think about you all the time.

Nightly

Nightly

I long for sleep

or tell myself I do,

yet keep deferring

bed-time.

I still sleep 

in the big bed

I shared with you,

when you were alive.

I have the bed

all to myself now,

can stretch out as I like;

I don’t.

When I retire 

late, alone, wakeful,

the true longing

is not for sleep.

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Longing

Each verse is a separate 'American sentence' – just because I wanted to give it some structure. This means that each could also stand alone, senryu-like.