NaPoWriMo #28 - Intuition

I wonder

I wonder what it's like

to watch the world

speed away without you,

to be left alone

while the wind blows away

pieces of what you once were,

to be conscious of your own fading

into the unremembered, into oblivion,

to become faceless, nameless,

some benevolent giver of life.

I wonder what it's like

to have a future written in stone

and a past of vanishing sand.

Free write:

When I remember my “a-ha moment” from my past, I understand the place I am meant to go with my words and poetry today is somewhere. There's no wrong place for poetry to take you, no wrong place for poetry to go. I'll go wherever the wind blows me, whether it be an enchanted forest or a volcano perched on the edge of eruption.

I realized on a day that there was nothing particularly special about that I am going to die. That's right: I'm not immortal and I won't be young forever. Everything around me is temporary. My world is even more temporary than I am. By the time my grandchildren are born (assuming I have grandchildren), everything will be different. None of them will know what a DVD is, and they'll probably never have been to a movie that isn't 3D. I wonder if I'll get lost in the confusion. If I'll slowly slip away into the sands of time until there's no one left who knows that I existed.

It's a sad thing, being left behind. Possibly even sadder than dying. I don't remember even the names of my great-great grandparents, let along further back. It makes me feel guilty. I wonder if I'll be remembered. If someday someone will be proud to have me as an ancestor, or if I'll be a faceless giver of life.

I'm much more likely to be faceless.

----

Notes: Well, my free write was focused upon my intuition (especially the last line of it), but somehow that didn't quite come across in the poem. Though I did focus on the same subject that my a-ha moment surrounded.

NaPoWriMo #26 - Getting Scrappy

I'm not my brother's keeper

How many times must I let you break me

before I hold you at arms length?

How many times must I

allow you to hurt me?

Am I bad for wanting

you to just go away?

Don't get confused:

I do still love you.

That's an obligation

of being siblings

But it doesn't mean

I want you near.

You used me up.

My patience

is all gone.

There is

nothing

left.

Free write

Phrase: Am I my brother's keeper?

Oh, the irony. That it was said by Cain, when the Lord asked about his brother, Abel, whom he had killed. Siblings, anger, and the desire to kill all in one neat little package.

Do we deny association to deny guilt?

I don't. I deny association and refuse to be associated with him because I can't handle it. He tears me apart and destroys me. Every time I let him get close, I inevitably walk away bleeding. Lies do a lot more damage than blows, no matter how hard they might be. I've had enough of cowering in the corner and letting him walk all over me.

I am not my brother's keeper. It's not an easy thing to say. There's a part of me that wishes I was strong enough to grab him by the scruff of the neck and drag him back onto the right path. To make him understand how much his lies hurt. It hurts me to admit I can't do it. I feel guilty for deserting him.

It's not that I've given up. Not quite. I just don't want to get hurt anymore. It's like a shield, that I'm reluctant to let down.

I am not my brother's keeper. It's not my responsibility.

I'm not my brother's keeper. I need to learn to let go.

-----

Notes: Earlier on today, I wrote a highly experimental piece, and I'm not sure how well it came out. I'm currently sitting in a lab waiting for a video to render, so I decided to write another. I really enjoyed the phrase prompt, and had started a second freewrite based on a second phrase. Here is the conclusion of that start.

NaPoWriMo #24 - Find a Phrase

the leopard

i wonder sometimes

how it felt to be trapped

trapped in his own skin

he could never escape

from his mistakes

from his past

from his spots

he had tattooed them on with ink

in a dusty cellar

before he knew better

before he understood

that they would never come off

or maybe someone else

tattooed them on him

while he was sleeping

maybe he didn't even know

it didnt matter

the world didnt care what happened

She didnt care what happened

he had spots

and that was that

he was stuck on a path

he hadnt chosen

and there was no way

to go back

he was a prisoner

in his own skin

Freewrite

Phrase: A leopard cannot change its spots.

This English proverb originated from the Bible, in the chapter of Jeremiah. It talks about how a sinner is no more capable of changing his ways than a leopard is capable of changing his spots. Are we all fated to be stuck? Stuck on some path, that we choose when we're young, before we know better? Is it really true that you can't teach an old dog new tricks?

A leopard cannot change its spots. No matter how hard he tries, he'll always be spotty and dirty and not good enough. I think leopards are beautiful, even if no one else does. Why would they ever WANT to change their spots?

Sometimes I think that beauty is found in the imperfections: the mole on the side of a supermodels face, or your tendency to flush bright red when you're embarrassed. Like watching you turn into a giant, angry tomato.

A leopard cannot change its spots. That's such a sad statement. I remember in Tarzan, when Jane's mother tells Tarzan that he's a spot and Jane is a stripe, and that no matter what Tarzan does, he'll always be a disgraceful spot. Thinking back on it, I guess that this was a reference to this proverb.

So some of us are spots, some of us are stripes and some of us have no pattern at all. I wonder which I am. Probably no pattern what so ever. I'm not chic enough to be a stripe, yet also not outlandish enough to be a spot. I guess I'm kind of boring, really. But that's okay. Like the proverb says, I cannot change what I am. Nor do I want to.

NaPoWriMo #16 - What's that smell?

Okay, for today’s prompt we had to write a 5 minute free write on a smell and then write a poem based upon that free write. I’m going to post the poem first, and then the free-write below it, so that you can read my inspiration.

Mittens

He was a storm cloud with wide yellow eyes

and a kink for having his tail pulled.

I remember him being beautiful,

but in the eyes of a child all things are.

He was too skinny, but I never realized.

He was sick, but he still took care of me.

He curled around my head like a lion:

Glaring. Watchful. Arrogant, despite his size.

Even then he smelled sick.

Like urine and sickness and death.

I was too young to know,

I’d never smelt it before.

Sometimes I think he really was a lion,

forced into a much smaller body.

That’s why he died,

because his body couldn’t handle it.

Scent: cat urine

I remember how weak he was. He couldn’t always make it to the litter pan. How long was he sick before we realized it? How long did he take care of me while I was sick before I realized it?

I remember his fur smelled like urine. I didn’t clean the litter pan, so I didn’t know it at the time, but years later, when I got a cat of my own, I finally realized what it was.

I remember he lay on my pillow, next to my head, watching over me, glaring at anyone who dared to come near me. Protecting me. His eyes were like an owl’s, and even then he was too skinny for it to be healthy. I can’t believe I never realized it, how sick he was, I mean. And he still had the time and the patience to take care of me. Animals are amazing.

I remember my pillow smelled like his fur for months after he died. Cat urine is a hard thing to get out. I remember holding him in my arms when he was a ball of fluff. He was so cute, like a storm cloud with big yellow eyes. I remember how he actually liked having his tail pulled. What a strange cat.

I remember how weak he was. I remember being unable to turn my back when he was put to sleep, even though I didn’t want to watch. It was raining. The mums were in bloom. We brought home three red mums to plant on his grave. Mums don’t usually survive the winter, but those did, and I was glad.

I remember my mom wrapped him in a towel. We didn’t unwrap him before we buried him. I think we didn’t want to see the body. So we buried him, towel and all. He has a headstone, too, but since there are so many rocks in the area, it’s hard to find unless you know where to look.

I remember going to visit him, a couple of times. I need to go more often. I don’t live there all the time any more, but he was precious, so I should visit him. I wish I could visit him. I’ll never forget him.