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fictionary… 8 megapixel artist… bloody awful poet.

Archive for the category “Bloody Awful Poetry”

falling

Falling. Not hard fast, roof to concrete, flat. Pavement stain.

Falling. Not motion slow, dream, down down. Abyss pain.

Falling. Heart and mind one, you and I one. Blanket to pillow remain.

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peerage

No photo today, just a hastily crafted, poetic rant… with a little bit of hope for the peerage in all of us.

watcher

She is the watcher,

over all,

over me,

over the street,

from one end

to the other.

But the watcher

doesn’t see

that we

are watching

over her.

a dog

An elegy in metaphor, or some such construct of modern poetic license. Anyway, this morning I was feeling all dog-honoring. Therefore, to all the dogs.

Bill

flight

Rest

in that moment

when

all else is to risk

defeat

Until the next

when

you take flight.

just me

I could’ve had water,

I didn’t want tea.

I might’ve gone out,

But I kept it just me.

cure

Day 6. Combining graphic art and poetry. The full treatment. Back tomorrow with my eye on Long Beach.

Bill

because

NaBloPoMo 2018 will be (for me) a combination of Instagram-friendly posts… of short poems and square photos… in anticipation of an entirely new direction for 2019. This month, I will also be giving details on my very soon forthcoming third book, Mourning Person, and any other really nifty information on what’s new with our publishing house, Silver Star Laboratory.

I’m glad you’re here. See you tomorrow.

Bill

Disenfranchised

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I lost a child.  You lost a parent.  She lost a spouse.  He lost a limb.  We lose what we lose, and when it’s lost, it is gone.  Not misplaced. 

Not missing like car keys to be found five minutes later next to the half-and-half in the fridge. 

But missing like one minute you’re saying “Good morning”, “Goodnight”, “See you soon”, and the next, you’re never saying it again, except to a ghost.

This is grief, unless it’s not your child, your parent, your spouse, or your limb.  Then, it’s an excuse, a personal problem, a character flaw.  And it isn’t even that your grief doesn’t belong to you, it’s that you don’t belong to your grief.

You are disenfranchised.

From your pain.  From your love.  From your god-granted human experience.  From all of it. 

You are disenfranchised. 

She lost a best friend?  Get over it.  He lost a girlfriend?  Get over it.  They lost a reason to get out of bed in the morning?  Get the fuck over it. 

When our right to grieve is denied us, except within the boxes others say must be checked.  When all love is love, but not all grief is grief.  When pain and mourning require blood kin for legitimacy.  And when the dignity to recover, as we are, is questioned, we are disenfranchised.

And if you wonder why this story has no end, it is because, like an end to grief, there isn’t one.  Because like you, like me, like he, like she, it, and we, remain disenfranchised.

 

© Copyright 2018 William S. Friday

Stream of Consciousness

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Don’t resist the urge to juggle badly, play the harmonica badly, make choices badly, love badly.

Pick up things you find in the dirt.  Shiny things are rarely the best things.  Treasure things that aren’t treasured.

Eat the pancakes.  Drink the coffee.

Dream dreams while you’re awake.  Tell someone those dreams.  Dream them together.

Don’t be hard on yourself before you need to be.

Plan for a rainy day, then pray for rain.

Make a list, change everything on the list, throw the list away, make a new list, do all the things on the list.

Do the last thing on the list first.

Get tired.  Rest.  Repeat.

Don’t be afraid to fix your mistakes.  Ask for forgiveness.  Go back and try again.  Don’t give up before it’s time.

If someone sticks around, maybe there’s a reason.  Maybe the reason is you.

Remember the reason.  Remember the reason.  Remember the reason.

 

© Copyright 2018 William S. Friday

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