Goodmorning! Hope you are all well! I’m sharing a couple of poetry pieces published on Instagram @herheartpoetry from http://www.herheartpoetry.com. As many poetry magazines, they have various topics each month/submission period.
This first poem was published months ago and the theme was on ‘love/relationships,’ and the second poem was published this past week on the theme, ‘Howl at the Moon.’
For anyone interested, this is another awesome place to have your poetry published. You do, however, need to create a square picture with some app on your phone/tablet that edits photos, from a photo of your poem on MS Office or in someway, creatively create an Instagram poem that is square 🙂
Thanks to Dylan of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie‘a First Line Friday Prompt. The first line from last Friday was: “I’m going to tell you how I lost my inheritance.” For NaPoWriMo the prompt is to write a nocturne which is a poem/song about the night. For A to Z Challenge, today’s letter is O for a GoodRead’s quote.
“You don’t have to be dead to leave a legacy. — Onyi Anyado”
I’m going to tell how I lost my inheritance, how my legacy rides in tides as the full moon rises,
How the night stole my humanity and hammered my soul a blow.
The dusk covered the light, liquid tar blanket bestowed,
The sun hid himself away, way down in western wilds of woe.
A sinking feeling settled in and a certain chorus began to ring,
A range of notes, a rising crescendo of riveting lyrical prose.
A poet’s words possessing her, when she knows full well,
The powerful pull of the midnight hour.
And the pressing provocative lure as the moon glows,
A white orb that won’t warble, a strong luminious light,
Residing over all as every full moon does.
To be host over the howling wolves, the healthy youths as they prowl,
The dark delights of the night distend into the dimest parts of every soul.
A choir of banshees brazenly taking souls salaciously, the maids from their beds,
The hour of the demons drawing back to their victims with wet bloody lips;
The incubus raging and awaking the wild within their prey.
And all is a lure, an image not clear, all this is imagined,
All this is frightening, foretold in nightmares.
The affected awake in the morning from the pleasure and pain,
From satisfied appetites, appalling in the dank aptitudes of night.
Night swells and swallows herprey wholly, partaking and doping with her starry glow,
Inviting the worst from the wise, even ill from the innocent.
Yet a moral being cannot mean to say, night has had her way and ‘I’ had no say;
It’s easy to give in with ease, to isolate one’s self to enthralling entertainments, inscribed darkly now on souls.
And what’s done in the night when the moon is full and fat, cannot be told for it stays hidden on those nights, when the wildest ones escape.
The vampires and the wolves, the creatures we know not of, and humans do not stay humble ether — they choose to fly with the fallen.
A nocturne of night will tell you what power presumes to hide beneath an inky black veil,
It’s not pure evil, it’s the usual kind, who chooses to dance with the devil, and forget their choices their choosing for charm and wine.
For tequila and vodka, for him and her, and whisky burning down your throat as the howls of the night combine with a loss of memory;
And we all awake mid-afternoon, no one knowing the peculiarities of such a night, a full out frightening moon.
Only a feeling, a shiver, a prayer, as the moon fades from brilliance, she is trapped, unwillingingly held as she wanes us back into morality.
The light of the sun salutes from the east and all is forgiven in harmony and health, angelic nebulas, skys of blue birds, and Bambi deers galloping.
Woe is the wicked night on the full moon, but how much greater is the morn after malevolence is perpetually destroyed,
Yet oh, how we miss the fun of bliss in the dark — no thoughts, no reason, just acceptance to absorb the pleasures of night’s nocturnal nightmares.
And now, for our prompt (optional as always!) Just as Rosa Jamila’s poems often sound like they come out of a myth or fairy tale (and not always one with a happy ending), today I challenge you to write a poem in the voice of minor character from a fairy tale or myth. Instead of writing from the point of view of Cinderella, write from the point of view of the mouse who got turned into a coachman. Instead of writing from the point of view of Orpheus or Eurydice, write from the point of view of one of the shades in Hades who watched Eurydice leave and then come back. Happy writing!
Dear, you are the center of this dangerous circle.
The compass rests on you, and points to another but who?
Dear, you tried to control your own destiny, as if you had a choice.
But the maker spins the wheel and lands in every slot we ought to go.
Trying to bet at a losing game boy, that’s a sure chance to fail.
Girl, you are his consolation prize, only because he could get what he wants.
But things don’t add up, he only cares about himself.
You are an off shoot a tethered branch on the tree for his convenance.
But does he know that you’re not playing his game anymore.
Does he know you found yourself respect, flow back into you like diamonds retrospect.
The howl, of self-indulgence flowing through the body, freedom from the oddity that’s plagued you.
And snow goes by, blinks light into my eyes, I’m seeing clearly for the first time.
I’m no sad bad song, I am the melody, the creator created carefully.
When I jump off key, he sets me back right, oh how good to flow harmoniously.
You never met me yet, but you stare into my soul, cold selfish eyes.
You want all control, you think it’s funny playing games, playing poker with a pro.
The river is flowing, turning, and churning, my heart is burning for the mistakes I made.
If you developed some morals, some hope for tomorrow, you’d be so much happier.
But your afraid of me, your afraid of what I offer and what I take away.
You’re afraid you might have to care about my feelings.
You’re just waiting for the next one to come along, man child.
I am the breathe of God blowing, he’s set me in place.
I made my mistakes, now I’m flowing, breathing air in outer space.
You’ll never see the laughter, you’ll never see the joy, you’re not a good person
But you could be if you tried in life just a little more.
So you’re heart was broken, so it will mend, but not if you destroy it piece by solid piece.
That beating, that heating of blood, that is the journey of life you feel.
You could be so much more why do you be so little, act so small.
There is hope in the beating of wings, in the crescent of the moon.
When you see in glory, you can see it all.