Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo is to write a ” poem with a secret – in other words, a poem with a word or idea or line that it isn’t expressing directly. The poem should function as a sort of riddle, but not necessarily a riddle . . .” As well, my GoodRead’s author quote will start with an author’s name beginning with the letter D, for the A to Z Challenge.
“A picture is a secret about a secret, the more it tells you the less you know.” ― Diane Arbus
On precious plush lips, she rests her hand,
She’ll never tell you what thoughts she’s had.
Preferring mostly, to let you wonder,
To pillage her plunder,
Yet to never understand who she is.
The secret so hidden and complex; this —
Illusion she portrays, by and by, everyday.
You can search through her closets array,
Of clothes and shoes, or her jewelry gleaming,
With her nothing is as it seems.
You’ll never find it hidden in kitchen drawers,
Packed away in the cupboard’s coffee tin or —
When you find out her password to her page,
Or look in private documents, bills or her wages.
It’s not in some box in the garage,
And begging her won’t assuage —
What you can never seem to pin point,
What you can never find in her poise —
The grace of her movements, her brilliant blue —
Eyes, searching yours, praying that you’ve a clue.
She’ll let you touch her how you like,
She knows your confusion without spite.
She’s hoping you’ll find it, but will you ever know?
“I had never been summoned to Number 208 [by the park] before; I nervously adjusted my coat . . .” A person could book a pick-up online or by phoning into FedEx but you couldn’t summon a particular delivery person, could you?
“April, it means what I said,” Becky from the warehouse told me on the phone, “I’m not being rude, the lady who lives there wanted you, specifically, at her home.”
The door was open when I arrived. “I’m here,” a frail female voice rasped.
Walking into the house I heard the respirations of a woman on a ventilator. She was all hollows and sallow skin. Her hair was whispy white and thinning. Eyes the color of blue-bells greeted me but they were bloodshot.
The woman grasped a yellow envelope with a trembling hand. She shook the envelope and a key dropped out.
Her shaking fingers held it out, “For me?” I asked.
I took the key staring at it in confusion; it appeared ancient. As I examined it I heard the woman gasp something. I moved closer to her and held her hand attempting to hear her strained voice. She shook her head with a ragged sigh and breathed her last.
1. I would like to sandboard down this deep sand hill, it. reminds of snowboarding but better because it’s not freezing cold outside and you don’t have to dress in winter gear; if you fell I believe it wouldn’t be as tough, sand is more giving then snow, but truthfully; I’m terrible at snowboarding or sandboarding, I should’ve learned when I was a little girl and had less distance to fall to the ground.
2. The shadow makes me think all the things we hide, of secrets we keep for each other, some which tear us to pieces inside, so should we keep secrets? It’s a valid question, but more so we need to be careful who we gift with what information, especially at first; I believe in honesty, but I know they’re some truths which are so awful, they should never see the light of day.
3. To live in the light, I think it’s a wonderful saying and I want to be forth right and not have to hide my true self from others; I like to say things how they are and not have to keep secrets (as I’ve said); but there are days the shadow wins and hiding secrets is the expected course of action; we need to have people we can trust with our secrets, and hope they trust their secrets to us, but I’m not always sure who you can trust with what types of secret because gossip is all too prevalent with people; secrets always bring confusion and bitterness is often a result.
A Ghazal is a poem that is made up like an odd numbered chain of couplets, where each couplet is an independent poem. It should be natural to put a comma at the end of the first line. The Ghazal has a refrain of one to three words that repeat, and an inline rhyme that precedes the refrain. Lines 1 and 2, then every second line, has this refrain and inline rhyme, and the last couplet should refer to the authors pen-name… The rhyming scheme is AA bA cA dA eA etc.
You can let yourself be stressed out and take everything upon yourself. You can force yourself to do too much when you know that you should stop. You don’t think “me” time is needed; you think it’s a bit selfish. Then you break, you shatter. The person you become is not someone you recognize. It is you at rock bottom and you wonder if there is a method of putting yourself back together. You wonder if you can ever be whole again. Because right now you are empty. The busyiness and fast rhythm of time ticking can never be stilled. You were never told to be careful, to slow down.
You ignored the signs that things weren’t right. You thought maybe you had a bad flu or ongoing cold. You thought a trip to the medicenter would make it all better. That you could put band-aids over the ever widening crack in your persona. You thought you could hide behind laughs, smiles, and declarations that you were feeling terrific. You never said how tired you were, how you lay awake at night. How this ‘thing’ started to creep up on you until it owned you and had you shuddering and suffering, bracing for impact. Your breath was shallow, you were lost beneath the pain. You became your pain and the torture of what you had become ate at your insides so that you wouldn’t eat; you weren’t interested. You thought it would make it easier on everyone if you would fade away. You suffered. No one is able to handle suffering at first but you grew used to it. You entertained suffering in the drawing room of your mind over endless cups of tea. Your world was a dark dank prison that you couldn’t escape. You wished for light to rain on you but all you got was a few cinders of fire. You became angry, blamed God, blamed the world, blamed your parents for giving you such genes, for your existence. And when you were at the deepest and most pitifullness of your trial you saw a candle in the window of your soul and held your frost bitten hands to the flame and began to soak in the warmth.
You lit more candles. You felt the heat rise through your limbs and pierce the empty places you had inside of you. You began to morph into a creature you scarce dreamed you could be. You changed, slowly, and methodically. It was a process but soon the darkness became twilight and you knew the worst was over. These were waters you could swim in now. The shore was close at hand, and landing on the beach you cried tears of joy. Your frail body was regaining strength and mobility. Your tortured mind became clear and your thoughts became peaceful and you smiled for the first time in ages. The sun came up that day, and didn’t go down. It was a special day. You had recovered yourself and found in your suffering that you were stronger then you knew. Strength was in your heart and soul. You were fortified and built up. And the next time you fell, you got back up. You didn’t let yourself get sucked down into the prison you left alive. You didn’t let your life become over run thinking there was always something you had to do and couldn’t miss. You learned to cope and learned what you were missing wasn’t as good as you thought it would be. You made choices for the better. You lived to tell your tale; others do not.