Day 16 PAD 2023

 

This poem is presented in its rough draft form for the PAD 2023 challenge and will be revised.

“The Worth of a Memory”

The pictures were spread out
on the table we sat at for years.
Many of them faded, tinted like
a filter. We got lost in their history.

Seeing their love change with tears
of laughter. Hair and glasses revealing
the styles of the day. Her eyes started
to fill with the pain of this new mystery.

A question of why, that the photographs
would not answer for any of us. A heart
can only take so much, and her’s broke
as she grabbed a few photos swiftly,

“What good are,” as she tore them apart,
“memories now?” she asked through the fear.

Poetic Form: Bref Double

Day 13 PAD 2023

This poem is presented in its rough draft form for the PAD 2023 challenge and will be revised.

“Don’t until Tomorrow”

Forgive and forget
Forgive but don’t forget
Don't forget the past
Don’t forget the pain
Pain of what could be
Pain of love not given
Given days of silence
Given nights of loneliness
Loneliness of self
Loneliness of family
Family name
Family gone
Gone from tomorrow
Gone from hope
Hope a small seed
Hope for better
Better chances to be
Better moments to see
See the flowers bloom
See the road ahead
Ahead of the game
Ahead of the chase
Chase to win
Chase a dream
Dream of hope
Dream a life
Life of my own
Life filled with more
More stars
More days of love
Love the moment
Love the growth
Growth of a family
Growth of a heart
Heart still trying
Heart still scarred
Scarred with memory
Scarred that fade
Fade to black
Fade from memory
Memory of a phone call
Memory of a bad goodbye
Goodbye to youth
Goodbye to yesterday
Yesterday haunts me
Yesterday taints tomorrow
Tomorrow is a gift
Tomorrow is not promised
Promised…
gift…

Poetic Form: The Blitz

PAD 2022 Day 21: Sound

 

This poem is presented in its rough draft form for the PAD 2022 challenge and will be revised. 

PAD Prompt: Sound

Poetic Form: Irregular Ode

“Ode to Music”

A minivan filled with voices,

Singing about Bruno

Smiles and laughter

As I hit a bad note

For decades music has filled my ears

And comforted my soul

As a child living with the other parent

bedroom in the unfinished basement

My little radio gave me lyrics

to dream about

instead of the darkness that filled the space

outside the doorway

The moon walk took me to another parent

While I learned to express myself

On cardboard

I felt like there was no stopping me

The break in the beats made me dance

My coin drop was word

I made poetry with my toprock verses

But I was known for my own suicide

Coming out of a windmill

to fall as if on a cross

It never hurt as bad as my unanswered questions of life

Another step-dad

Another genre of music

Grunge filled my college dorm

I knew why I never went home

Even as I screamed the question

“Why go home?”

New friends 

Shared that we all have unanswered prayers

In all genres

I found love songs

and had to hit repeat on heartbroken lyrics

Until someone found me 

and we had our song

had our dance

Then wrote a new family musical

My playlists are like photo albums 

that bring tears to my mind.

Snap shots of all this life has given

and taken from me

After fifty years music is a landslide 

that is music to my soul.

PAD 2022 Day 2: Second Chance

 This poem is presented in its rough draft form for the PAD 2022 challenge and will be revised. 

PAD Prompt: Second Chance

Poetic Form: Prose

“Yesterday”

There are times, when the past calls me to follow it down the stairs. Promising no harm, yet the light switch never works. The darkness whispers to me, drawing me down seldom used stairs. Each step creaking as I step back - back to any moment in time that I could have been important to you, both of you. I could have been loved like a son. Protected. Tossed a ball to. Had someone there on Parents’ Night.

My feet touch the concrete floor. My eyes adjust. The outlines of memories are visible, I recognize them because I lived them. I feel the darkness that sits in the middle of their existence. I admit to a heavy desire to bring them up the stairs, into the light. Hoping against hope that I can refurbish them. Freshen the paint. Make each memory joyful.

I touch the edge of an old black and white TV. One of the first memories of you wasted on a bed that lays on a floor. The sunlight making the dust dance. I watch a movie about giant spiders. I am hungry, you do not respond. I am four years old and know not what to do.

I hold the tears back, knowing that none of these memories can give me the power to write a different story. The darkness holds me there, even as I want to leave. My chest tightening. Starting to panic. It feels like you are here, stepping from the depths of yesterday. I feel the air move backwards. I am on the edge of fear and anger. I break for the stairs. Feel a hand brush my shoulder blade as I reach the top of the stairs, entering into the light of today.

You do not deserve a second chance.

Poetic Form 94: Qasida

 Here be Dragons

The walking path leans into the woods, sunlight

becomes a mosaic pattern of delight.

My daughters scamper onto the darken ground

to find sticks, there are new dragons here to fight.

I follow their adventure on the path, I

yell, “A golden fire breather to the right!”

Smiling, I can almost feel the the wings flapping

as the dragon rises in my girls’ eyes bright.

With a blink of memory I feel the dark

corners of the woods take me to a past night.

As a young boy I would run the streets alone,

trying to dodge my own dragons, fear in flight.

Those dragons, not seen with imagination,

their wings and claws were never shown in daylight.

Always the new kid with a new address to

remember, a family just out of sight.

I learned to slay them with my words and paper,

a battle I won with a pen and rewrite.

I open my eyes, leave the path to join in 

a new story, three princesses and a knight.

We laugh as I spin the tale of new battles,

here be dragons that fatherly love makes right.

The Poetic Form #94: Qasida

The qasida is a form that dates back to pre-Islamic Arabia. The poem is a story 

written in a string of shers (complete couplets) that can be as long as 100 couplets. 

The meter is up to the poet but should be consistent. There is some debate 

about the rhyme scheme. One form has a mono-rhymed pattern: aa aa aa.  

Another variation is aa bb cc dd. The most common rhyme pattern is aa xa xa xa xa xa. 

The poem should also entail the following parts:    

• opening setting describes or recalls past times    
• tale of lost love or things left behind     
• the struggles of the journey      
• praise or some moral maxim    

January 6, 2021

 

January 6, 2021

I stand upon a hill

    overlooking my city

    searching for a peaceful place to write

Even though the sun

    has not set

    the horizon is dark and moving

        like smoke

The darkness billows out

    covers the land and sky

    moving towards me

 

Street lights flicker on 

    for a second 

    then are extinguished 

        little firecrackers popping

 

I follow the firework display 

    while darkness covers

    the street and buildings

I frown as people scramble

    out of buildings

    only to be snuffed out

        like the street lights

As my city disappears

    I feel my hair move

    as a breeze grows strength

In seconds the wind howls

    I swear I can hear

    the violent sound

        of teeth gnashing

The wind tears tears from my eyes

    my ears ringing

    as I bow my head

I set my feet and shoulders

    against the approaching darkness

    now at the base of the hill

        I am afraid

My chest hurts as my heart

    tries to break free

    to find a safer place

 The darkness rushes

    over me, I kneel

    It sounds like a pack of wolves

        but I feel no teeth

The world around me becomes silent

    I wait a moment

    to open my eyes

Reluctantly, I lift my lids

    I see nothing

    until my eyes adjust

        to the darkness

I can see the faintest outlines

    of the world around me

    shoes, notebook and pen

 

My first thought is 

    what will tomorrow 

    be like now 

        I hopelessly sigh

 

On instinct, I find my 

    notebook, pen and thoughts

    I start to write

While the ink saturates the paper

    my pen becomes a light

    I look up to see

        other small flames

The darkness is being punctured

    in the city below

    stark light against the stillness

 

For a moment  

    I think I see

    the constellation

        Ursa Minor

I stand, watching the single flames

    start to migrate

    to the center of town

The lights move as one

    becomes two

    becomes three

        becomes together

The darkness dissolves

    in ragged patches 

    from the light of talent

With my pen and paper in hand

    I start down the hill

    to join the others

        removing this blanket of darkness