For NaPoWriMo Day 22 the Prompt is: ” to take one of the following statements of something impossible, and then write a poem in which the impossible thing happens: ‘The clock can’t strike thirteen.‘”
I’m combining with Michael from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Tale Weaver Prompt #166 on the theme of “exploring the sensations of being lost, not knowing where you are and realizing you are wandering aimlessly. How and/or who do you ask for help?”
Credit: Mara Eastern. Used with Permission for MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie.
The clock can’t strike thirteen
Thirteens the witching hour dim
Dim as the black soundless night
Dim as every street’s the same
Same as the last and same as the next
Same figures leering in an unfathomable maze
Maze where I don’t know where here is
Maze where each turn is the wrong way
Way down cobblestone paths
Way down roads with naught but silence
Silence without comfort
Silence that hastens quivering
Quivering and deciding to go back
Quivering as I wander in circles
Circles towards the same stuccoed shops
Circles to windows with signs reading, “Closed”
Closed as midnight has long passed chimed
Closed no matter my banging on houses
Houses red-bricked, idyllic in day
House white-fenced unhearing of strangers
Strangers as I, but I am no harm
Strangers as they who follow and whisper
Whisper that I’m lost and cannot escape
Whisper of this hours unholiness
Unholiness as the demons mock my steps
Unholiness as the graveyard headstones crack
Crack as stones splits with moaning
Crack as hands reach, bloodied and fragile
Fragile as my skin sweating and chilled
Fragile as heels broken — left in bare-feet
Bare-feet blackened from putrid streets
Bare-feet cut by pebbles with each step
Step here, step there, no where leads home
Step into the inescapable hour trapped
Trapped as the chants drew me far
Trapped as I bewitched scampered
Scampered away from the party’s delights
Scampered into the sudden mist further
Further into the labyrinth, a sweet dream in daylight
Further into the hour my grandmother warned
Warned of those of dark intent who wander
Warned of the hour so few remember
Remember the creatures who frighten
Remember the creatures who chase
Chase in the thirteenth hour’s delusions
Chase me, knowing I knew better
Better despite my heart’s rapid fluttering
Delusions fade, a light burns — the wicked-hour passes
I’m lying in the summer grass. Above me the sky appears as if the heavens are opening. Perhaps brilliant marshmallow clouds behold some greater being, a creator with vision and design? There has to be more to humanity than our randomness in the world. I think that we all have a place, a reason, a purpose. We aren’t accidental and are made specifically to be ‘us.’
It’s a relief the hot sun is blocked by the clouds but I can see the light peeking through as if the sky has provided me an inkling of celestial luminescence. But maybe the sky is only the sky and I’m personifying my beliefs and feelings? But then, maybe faith and the existence of God is demonstrated most superbly by the the earth, nature, and tiny glimpses of gloriousness seen lying in the grass.
” What does the word “shameful” bring to mind for you? I found two quotes from nineteenth century French writer Victor Hugo that seem to capture my own thoughts on this word. Take a few minutes to free write and see where this leads you. Is it something you’ve done? Something that was done to you? Something you’ve observed on either a small, personal scale or large corporate or government level?”
No one said, life is as believed,
We pass each day, avoiding pain;
Forgetting, shamefully deceived.
Our worlds turn amiss, we bleed;
Yet, from difficulties too we gain.
Consider them in life as reprieves.
Intense pain, blood leaks and we grieve,
Toxins cleansed, blood let, not in vain;
Wounds left, shamefullyunseemly.
Suffer, yet many a worse life conceive;
World that’s mean, feeds on human pain.
Yet, we shine our hope, despite grief;
Though our scars are deep, we still breathe.
There’s strength fighting, not leaving,
A man near death, not left tobleed.
Sacrifice and freedom conceived.
Sadness trickles past, cleansing rain;
Bathed in water, hope found, relief,
Strength, warmlight glows, hope healing.
“A Villanelle is a nineteen-line poem consisting of a very specific rhyming scheme: aba aba aba aba aba abaa.The first and the third lines in the first stanza are repeated in alternating order throughout the poem, and appear together in the last couplet (last two lines).”