Poem: Word Wrestling 


Pages of books not written; I’m smitten with writing and making connections. Between the exertions of the mind and the final piece laid out before me; a master piece a sculptural word image.

Many pages have been torn out so worn with notes and ink they had to be reborn upon the laptop screen, reformed and moved around until an agitation would cease to exist inside the writer’s mind.

Placing words are like placing memories. A smell of leather and glue can you bring you back to those first books, the classics, made in ancient form; but now the books aren’t even paperback or on thick paper; now the books are read from phones and tablets. It’s a new form of perception for words.

Words have no meaning until you make them a sentence, until you move them around with more of their kind and place them between periods, commas, semi-colons, question marks, and other punctuation. But in saying that, arrange them properly or abandon all hope.

Words don’t have meaning until you say what you mean using examples and making the sound of the words pleasing; perhaps, you’ll alliterate or personify. Or maybe you’ll say exactly what you meant sparsely and short.

These words are all tools to build the illustrious novel, the poetry book, the poster, the newsletter, or the magazine. You can use them with images snapped by a camera, but you can make them an image. Smash together words like ants coming from a hole in the wall.

You can poison with words the way you kill ants – Borax and Icing sugar – a deadly sweet treat like words that linger for their artifice. Words that are artificial, extending their life just to be, we don’t need them here.

We could spend hours debating word usage, sentences, and clauses. But who cares really? I just wanted you to comprehend the connection of words to final draft, to your fait accompli. I wanted you to dream while you type away that words can actually mean a great deal when they are used properly.

They can snake into your mind, a superhuman surprise and in a rush you’ll hurry to write down your word picture. You’ll create another part, a piece of the pie, and for moments you’ll dream sipping on endings. And eventually it will fit, click and create the last words ever written on the subject by your author, unknown. But you can call her Jane Doe.

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©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.

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Poem: A Night at Home


alone girl
http://www.pixhome.blogspot.com
On a lonely Saturday night she sat at home, turning textbook pages. She was supposed to be reading but the words blurred before her.

Like any other night she was at home, no place to go when you have limited energy. No place to go when your friends are coupled up.

The night outside was peaceful, and it was warm for November. When the darkness rolled in, it was fast a midnight sky.

And the stars twinkled down on her, she hadn’t seen them glimmer in ages; she felt as if they knew her secrets, that she longed to be strong again.

But the stars had heard billions of pleas for change and prayer to prevent suffering. They reigned down supreme as many begged to Him ‘on high’ for relief.

The snow lit the ground so it was slightly easier to see. When you drove home it shone, a white neon sign that was to remain until April.

And the houses with their lights off were slightly alarming. The world was out celebrating that the holidays were here. But some people were just stuck, marinating in their chairs.

But not everyone could party on warm nights. Some such as her, had things to do and places to be tomorrow.

But what she wouldn’t trade to be as most everyone, to not have to worry when the clock struck midnight. Not to have to feel a sickening in her stomach.

To not feel a terrible exhaustion hit her and feel herself fading away while the people around her move like puppets, never knowing that for her something isn’t right

The sound becomes to much, her ears are hurting. There are too many people here now. And she runs for the door only to be stopped by a woman she knows little, slurring her words on Bourbon.

Yes, better to stay at home and have a glass of wine. Better to stay at home and ace the exam on Tuesday. Better to be well for tomorrow and do some Christmas browsing. Better to be well.

But she can’t stop from wanting what she knows she can’t have. She prays every night but He ‘on high’ keeps whispering for her to go on, how she is. She’ll be fine.

And for her, that’s not an option. That’s not a choice. That is a sentence given and she lacks the power to change her direction.

Flipping pages is alright some of the time. But some nights are for party dresses, and high heels. Some nights are for music and a fantastic meal.

Some nights are for friends and staying up until dawn. Some nights are for memories that keep carrying you on.

But some nights are for typing and writing a poem. Writing on the screen what she is thinking and wondering if anything will change.

Or if the world will keep on spinning endlessly, ignoring her prayers. But she keeps on writing because it’s an escape from her mind.

Where the wheels are turning and the clock won’t go round, wondering when she can again begin; to begin anew, does that take until New Years?

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©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.