#NovemberNotes Day 9/Saturday Mix: Poem – Shadorma – “Be a Riser” #amwriting #poetry #hope #saturdaymix


For November Notes the Day 9 song is called ” 1-800 – 273 – 8255″ Logic featuring Alessia Cara and Khalid. I reversed the songs for Day 8 and Day 9 so Day 9’s actual song was completed yesterday. As per usual combining prompts with Sarah from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Saturday Mix Prompt of a shadorma form poem about emotion.

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Credit: Ricardo Gomez Angel via Unsplash

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“1-800 – 273 – 8255” by Logic featuring Alessia Cara and Khalid

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“The Shadorma is a Spanish poetic form made up of a stanza of six lines

(sestet)  with no set rhyme scheme.

It is a syllabic poem with a meter of 3/5/3/3/7/5.

It can have many stanzas, as long as each follows the meter” (Popular Poetry Forms).

——-

You’re on the —

Low of life that’s fine,

Just take time,

Realize —

No one can see the future,

Sit down, stay awhile.

—-

Take your time,

Value the time you have,

So your low,

Many more —

Are deeper in dirt than you,

So, rise another day.

——

If you’re here,

You matter a lot,

Building life —

Takes much time,

Nothing is perfect, it hurts,

Rise to the challenge.

—-

You don’t want —

To be alive but —

You don’t know,

What it is

Truly breathing free, inhaling —

Life is tough, rise up.

——

Find your help —

Seek out others to —

Stop the thoughts;

Those anxious,

Murmurs insecure and bleak,

Rise you are not weak.

—–

Emotion’s bleed,

Guy or girl life hurts.

Healing is —

A process.

Don’t quit, don’t give in; fight on —

Sun always rises.

——

Your life is —

Precious but, —

You hear what you feel;

Alone with —

No hope or —

Reason to survive, find faith —

God cares, she cares, rise.

—–

You matter,

You’ll see put down your —

Weapon, don’t inflict —

Dying wounds.

Breath, seek help,

There are phones beyond no home,

Let her in and rise.

——

She wants you —

To feel the light’s glare,

Sunshine with,

Delightful —

Rays of hope; fight on, don’t end —

Your life, rise up, swim.

—–

You don’t want —

To try anymore,

But there’s her,

Heart beating —

Next to yours, so hope, believe,

Rise for tomorrow’s.

—–

Tomorrow,

Never dies, the —

Words are true.

Life is yours,

Your legs tremble so walk on,

Rise, you’re valuable.

—–

Innately you;

Irreplaceable.

If you left,

Her heart would —

Shatter; others too would wonder,

Why such promise fell.

—-

Let them in,

They can’t see inside,

Thoughts rolling,

So fast, get —

Their attention, ask ’til —

Taking their hands you rise.

—-

You want life,

You choose it crying,

Not easy —

To admit,

You want to be alive, not dead,

Rise up, live well.

—–

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

B&P’s Shadorma and Beyond: “In Darkness Lies” #poetry #writing #amwriting 


This is last week’s Shadorma prompt, hosted by MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie. The poem, “Travelling Through The Dark” by William E. Stafford. 

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Credit: http://www.transformationplus.com

—–

There are things, 

Best not explained and

Thought of once, 

Forgotten. 

Some times rise up in memory

Some nights lost.

—–

Perhaps the —

Road was offending —

Nature not —

Giving her, 

Space required for her to thrive, 

Voice unheard.

—— 

But I wish, 

Someone out there could —

Hear nature’s —

Whispers cried. 

Then we wouldn’t harm her deer, 

Not anything.

——

We might have —

More respect for such creatures whom —

Know not where —

They tread is —

Surely the end, too dangerous, 

So they die. 

—-

And like that —

Deer killed by the road,

Womb full of —

Baby who —

Won’t ever be born; Nature —

Cries for loss. 

—–

If the corpse, 

Lies there on the road, 

Some idiot, 

Not paying —

Attention; he’ll hit it and —

Kill himself. 

—–

Though the deers, 

Death is so tragic, 

So is the —

Loss of a —

Human life more; though we think, 

Some don’t think. 

——

Perhaps a —

Sign some flashing lights, 

Saying, “Deer —

Crossing Please —

Be aware,” but some don’t read. 

The corpse goes —

—–

A gaping —

Grave to eternity, 

Mother and —

Fawn are gone. 

No vigil, no prayer, no thought, 

Nature mourns. 

——-

“Travelling Through the Dark” By William E. Stanford 

——

Traveling through the dark I found a deer

dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.

It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:

that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.

—–

.By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car

and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;

she had stiffened already, almost cold.

I dragged her off; she was large in the belly..

 ——-

My fingers touching her side brought me the reason—

her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,

alive, still, never to be born.

Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

.——-

The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;

under the hood purred the steady engine.

I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;

around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.

.——–

I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—,

then pushed her over the edge into the river.

——-

——

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Poetry – ” Rise Up “


When the notes begin to play, hum along and sing the chorus if you may.

The sounds of silence lowly rising as the tide, a gentle splashing growing;

Voices raised in some kind of nameless praise, pick up the pace now begin the melody.

A child’s vocals raised in anthem sweet and dolce as the hum begins its throw;

Begins to rise the chords of voices heavenly, putting out the call to one another.

Alto, Tenor, Bass, then the Soprano’s join in the shockingly beautiful voice of the child.

The piece comes together now, can you feel it rising, it gives me shivers this singing.

The breathing of the talent on a cold, and moonless night, bring sounds to the darkness.

Acapella gently then the bass begins to tremble and delighted sound takes on the wind and trees and brings us to our knees;

Put out the call, put out the call, everyone’s going to rise up and the power of the sound simply out of bounds growing as the tears they ripple.

Out of the lonely mans eye and he sings along in tenor softly giving praise to earths majesty to heavens winged Angels.

Put out the call, put out the call, it’s time to take some action.

And sound surrounds in blessed harmony and tears flow like water pouring from the faucet;

Raise the living and the dead with this song we sing – something’s going to rise up, rise up, dead bones are gonna rise up and her themelancholy. 

The voices are fading out, slowly as we breath, tears and sniffles as we sing ever growing quietly.

Something’s going to rise up, rise up, and we go back to dolce and the mournful sound of a child’s voice the last note to be sung.

Something’s going to rise up, rise up you’ve woken it with your song;

Dead are going to rise, the spirit of the voices woke them with your sound.

Go back to sleep, the song is complete, be careful what you raise up today.

  

Where The Skeleton’s Live


Bringing usual objects to life … trying again, correctly this time with prompt #4.

My closet is bursting. It is as full as a graveyard even though I go through it seasonally. There is a rainbow of colour in my closet spread out between thin boned arms that always seem to crack and break.

The creakybones rattle when I go in my closet to choose something to wear. I can feel the dust of the oldest bones between my pale ghostly skin itching up the material of my clothes. I wonder why skeletons would reside as such interlopers in my closet. Haven’t they got better places to rot and turn to dust then between my favourite blouse and skirt?

These ancient bones they wouldn’t care if they were still dripping wet on the secrets I hide in my closet. They’ve thrown their ghastly juices upon scrapbook albums from my good old university days, albums my nieces and nephews will see when their old enough. Auntie drinking to much Vodka Slime. The skeletons would probably love Vodka Slime. It’s a drink right up a skeletons alley. Enough vodka to rot your guts out with just a twist of lime and a small amount of 7up. Those are probably what these dry bones thirst for, slime.

It’s the shoes I get upset about. Skeletal limbs scratching back and forth on my first pair of deep patent red stiletto pumps. Some association with the pints of blood that use to flow through veins and and work through muscle. But they love to scrape a sequin off my sequinned silver stiletto pumps or to tear the silky material on those flowered purple pumps I’ve never worn yet. They like the cacophony of sounds bones make against shoes possibly because of the association of soles (souls) and feet. They haven’t got either you see so they go after what they miss the most.

They’ve no place to walk these days and nothing to see through gaping eye holes. They have nothing to grin at through toothy smiles. The bones just sway there, holding up my boxes, my clothing, and violating my shoes. They hang between my clothes and I inhale dust in the air like smoke.

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. At least my skeletons were never burnt to charcoal, into small fragments of bone. They have no marrow my bones, I doubt they ever did. It’s too long ago to tell that they had a core full of life. But I take care as I said to make sure they are never covered in rags, or never serve as shelves to tattered leggings.

I leave my closet open at night just so I can see what the skeletons are doing in there swaying and cracking. Sometimes I hear the whisper of song, these dry bones are gonna rise up, these brittle bones…But I think skeletons make you imagine things. They make you hallucinate what was never even real, at least in an explainable sense. But they are my skeletons, my past. And the past is the best indicator of where you’re going.

Truth: we are all going where these skeletons have gone, they are just bones ready to be pushed back into the crypt at the bottom of my closet. In reality, there are more skeletons waiting to get their quivering tarsals ( or is it metatarsals) on my clothing, fresh, juicy ones.

But the skeletons I hate the most are only dust and coat the baseboards outside my closet door. They build up powdery white and dirty the carpet like chalk. I think that if even skeletons can be dust they still exist and can never be fully forgotten. I love your bones, a character in a book I’m reading attests. I think we are talking about two different things …