And If The World Held Still

And if the world went silent

And if the world held still,
would I hold still, too,
or keep on searching to find
something out there left to do?

And if the world went silent,
would I be quiet as well,
or would I make cacophonous music
with a piano to forte swell?

And if the world was all over,
would I at last find some peace
or would I worry about forever
even after my release?

Image by Arek Socha from Pixabay

Advertisements

The Heart is a Muscle

painting lovers as circles
and their worries as squares

The following poem is unfinished. I tend to take a long time to write any given poem, but this one has been an ongoing project for about 8 months, which is about half the lifetime of this blog. At this point, continuing to make tiny changes without the satisfaction of feeling like it is fully finished is getting ridiculous. I need to get it out there, either to get some feedback on it or to have it stop rattling around in my brain. One day, I will return to the piece and finish it, but now is simply not the time. Nevertheless, I hope that you enjoy reading a draft of “The Heart is a Muscle.”


The heart is a muscle,
and the nerves are electric.
Through this ongoing bustle,
the world skews geometric,

painting lovers as circles
and their worries as squares,
giving curves to their pulses
and angles to their cares.



They will start just as always
with both passion and thrill
with vibrant hues that amaze
as the moments hold still.

With a touch of their fingers
or the brush of their hands,
the sensation will linger
like a divine command,

but cloud nine’s not forever.
No, all love must evolve,
for life is too clever
with its problems to solve.

Their lives will become busy,
but still they will try
to ride out that tizzy,
let their love edify,

and hope to get through this–
as we’ll cheer for them, too–
all wishing for pure bliss
when they’re circles anew.



Now, this lovers’ tribute
must come to an end,
though their story continues
past the upcoming fin.

We sadly cannot wait here;
our own lives need attending.
We must address our own fears;
we have souls that need mending.

But we’ll all repeat this puzzle
and its painting in metric
’cause the heart is a muscle,
and the nerves are electric.

Photo by Oleg Magni from Pexels


As I said at the top of this post, this poem is still a draft. There are parts of the middle that I don’t think flow very well. It also needs to be much longer for the ending to make sense. Despite all of my work on it, I have not been able to get it to a point where it felt like I was done with it.

This brings me to a question: How do you feel about me posting drafts on here? In fact, how do you feel about me posting content that is not poetry at all?

I would like to be able to post content more consistently, but lately I’ve been feeling held back by the niche that I have created for myself. Poetry is a slow process for me. I can’t put one up every day (not even a short one) and be happy with its quality. If I were to also post ideas, discoveries, and stories from my life, would you want to read them? Or are you okay with my current slow and inconsistent schedule because it means that I can devote the blog solely to poetry?

I have written and rewritten a blog post all about my experience with posting a poem to the internet every day during NaPoWriMo, but I have been unsure whether people would actually want to read that, or would rather I just get right back into posting more poems.

Regardless of your answer, I very much appreciate the time you have taken to read this blog. I hope you’re having a wonderful day!

Peace out!

Advertisements

Every Poet Writes About Skies of Marmalade

On beauty and banality

Every poet seems to write on skies of marmalade,
about waters of azure and the texture of suede,
but I so rarely see these things in my day-to-day.



My life consists of grit and grime
of cheap laminate floors and of vinyl countertops.


Of cracked laptop screens
And weather-worn shoes


An aesthetic with lightbulbs burnt out
and muddy puddles and unfolded laundry,
pots of dirt that once held plants,
cacti that just refuse to die,
windowless rooms,
bruises on skin that has not been licked by the sun in far too long.

There’s paint stains on the dining room table.

There’s patina on the silverware.

There’s faulty memories and mismatched meter and tongues that confuse themselves
and meanings that should never be spoken aloud.

Wounded egos.

Filth.

Muck.

Phlegm.

Imperfect families.

Half smiles.

Accidental laughter at problematic jokes.

Heads brimming full
of ideas that will never come to fruition,
poetic lines completely unnecessary to the meaning,
and chipped teeth repaired temporarily decades ago.




But there’s a beauty in banality, a hope in the mundane,
an elegance in all the things that we hold in disdain,
so excuse me if I speak of the ugly in a gilded frame.

Photo by Abdullah Ghatasheh from Pexels

Advertisements

ghost

A wispy, ghoulish, haunting thing

I’ll reemerge in fits and starts,
convey the message of my heart,
and disappear again just like a ghost.

A wispy, ghoulish, haunting thing
that even now just deigns to bring
a short, sarcastic, base, belated post.


Photo by Marcelo Jaboo from Pexels


Long time, no poem. Sorry.

I have been writing little bits here and there, but I simply have not had the energy to sit down and edit or complete them. Even worse, I have been struggling to find the energy to read other people’s work or reply to messages.

I can’t guarantee that I’m back to reading and writing consistently, but I can guarantee that I’m slowly working through reading various blogs and that I am trying to get back into the groove of creation.

Thank you to everyone who is bearing with me. I have missed you all.

Peace out,
Joy

Fake Tomorrows

This cycle is too persuasive
and this cycle calls my name.

I long for words I’ve never written
and for songs I’ve never sung.
I long for feelings I’ve never felt
and for bells I’ve never rung.

I’ve imagined these possibilities–
my mind does this when I’m down–
It makes problems out of naught
just like a dust mote on a crown.

Though reminiscing about nothing
and self-berating causes shame,
this cycle is too persuasive
and this cycle calls my name.

Now, my blue skies all have faded
to shades both gray and dark
with no more hope of sunshine
to light the outlines oh, so stark.

I cannot fight or face it–
I’ve already gone too deep
I can’t climb from this chasm
Nor call for help nor leap.

So, please come Serotonin,
please come Dopamine,
please come Vigor for Life,
please come Fresh, and please come Green.

Take me back to my home–
I have somehow lost my way.
I became trapped by fake tomorrows
and by pretend yesterdays.

I’ve tried to end this poem
on a nice, uplifting note,
but today, I just can’t make it happen.


Photo by Aakash Sethi from Pexels

Today’s resource for knowledge and compassion is the International Association for Suicide Prevention (IASP), which lists suicide prevention helplines throughout the world and in various languages. Just use the helpful map on their homepage to select your continent, and you’ll be redirected to a list of hotlines and websites that might be pertinent to you.

Advertisements

I Want to Write a Love Song

Writing to write

I want to write a love song
but I cannot find the notes,
so I cut all the guitar strings
and trap the lyrics in my throat.

I want to write a speech,
but I cannot find a cause,
so I shut down my computer
and wire shut my jaws.

I want to write a novel,
but I cannot find the plot,
so I crumple up my paper
and leave it all to be forgot.

I want to write a poem,
but I cannot find a message,
so I scribble all these words down
and hope there’s still value in this passage.


Photo by Ylanite Koppens from Pexels

I’ve been working on this poem for about a month. I’ve recently been prioritizing some newer posts because I thought their messages were more pressing. In the time between when this poem was written and now that it is being published, I read this poem by My Lucid Sonder that shares some similarities with mine. If you like my poem’s theme, check out theirs as well!

Also, even though this poem is not themed around social justice issues, it is important that we utilize the momentum that we have right now instead of letting our outrage die down. As such, I am going to be including a link to a cause or a resource related to justice at the end of my posts for the foreseeable future. Today’s is a carrd of ways to support and stay informed about the Black Lives Matter Movement.