[PoemADay] Nos. 1 & 2

My new initiative for the month of May is a Poem-A-Day. I was belatedly inspired by April being National Poetry Month. And the wonder of how likely most of these poems will be about zombies.

These are going to be bad. They're going to be awkward and stumbling and first drafty. But I really need to be more creative and don't have time for writing more substantial pieces right now. Even if the character of Yuuki sprung wholecloth into my mind this past week, along with the images of orange peels on a white sheet and zombies and Lyra Falamoun's Crewe. Yessss.

Since, in true Melissa Fashion (tm), I am getting a late start here are Poem No. 1 and No. 2:

Poem No. 1 (for Dad)
through my fingers like grains of sand,
the grit of your hair and
limbs
and heart
in a child's sand bucket
i carried through the surf foam

every step gone as i made it

the perspiration of the bottle in
my pocket, heavy against
my white thigh

we are all pieces of you
hair and
limbs
and heart

every breath gone as we make it

perhaps
someday a pearl

Poem No. 2*
I am yours
for the taking,

should the taking be more than my desire
coloring you like the electric down of
light through my window

I am yours
for the taking

I want your body to smell like my body,
my mouth to plumb the wet heat of your mouth,
swallow your secrets
and make them mine

this is hardly original

save,

I am yours
for the taking

* Where I might have inadvertently stolen the sentiment of Neruda

[Poetry Warp] Sunday, April 25, 8:35 A.M.

So I woke up this morning after a particularly intense dream about my father. He was on the roof of the garage of our old house on Silman and was making something on the roof with rope. It was my Mom's name. At this point of the dream, the thought hit me (unwanted and rather rudely) that this could not be happening. Particulary in light of having been dreaming about kicking asses with strange, dreaming martial arts (which is more what I like to dream about).

But when I woke up, I realized rather sharply that I couldn't just call my Dad and tell him about this crazy dream. I hate when that happens. So I wrote a poem (first draft) about it:

and sometimes I wake up with the
ghost of you on me
like the cotton of my sheets or
the skin of my limbs

remembering you are
the fine sand of Folly Beach

remembering that I have lost
the only man who loved
me without preamble or addendum
not even in the moments between dreams and waking
with the ghost of you on me-

I thought we would have more time

and now,

sometimes I wake up with the
ghost of you on me
like the cotton of my sheets or
the skin of my limbs,

only just realizing that you are gone

Strange Anniversaries

The first anniversary of my father's death has come and gone.

One of the most seminal and heartbreaking things I've ever experienced in my life still resonates. I haven't been able to write anything about my father not couched in pseudonyms and teenage vampiric fluff. Which probably doesn't count.

And I don't think tonight is going to break that strange spell.

So I sigh and offer this:



There's nothing I can say.
There's nothing we can do now.
There's nothing I can say.
There's nothing we can do now.

My caveat is that I absolutely abhor Jack Johnson, the {very} poor man's Ben Harper.

However, this song really takes the words - or attempts to use them while I'm mute - out of my mind regarding the way I feel about my Dad.

Lots of mind weirdness as the Rocket Gibraltar moment looms nearer and nearer. Two weeks, now.

But,

There're still so many things
I want to say to you
But go on
Just go on
We're bound by blood that's moving
From the moment that we start