This is a form i call "Melolee"
It's a song that has just two refrains and a single verse.
The refrains use the rhyme scheme 'aaba,' while the verse takes any form the writer chooses, but has only 14 lines. The Melolee form is: Refrain-Verse-Refrain=4-14-4 in number of lines.
One Was A Shadow. "Oh sing a lullaby
Looking in a stranger's eye!
The first idea is beautiful
The next will make you cry.
Once there were two strangers
But only one knew
One had become a friend
As tall as the bond grew
Their feelings sat on a bus
But to each there was never a word
As they came closer to time
And laughed in the sun's face
One began to look away
Affection began to erase
The other opened like a plant sprouting to embrace
But feelings are like shadows,
Sometimes they hide behind
And these feelings were no friends of daylight.
Oh sing a lullaby
Looking in a stranger's eye
The first i hear is beautiful
But the next will make you cry."
The tide licks my toes thirstily while I hunger for your waves.
Leave it to me to butcher the "r" and forget the "i" in thirstily 🙃 Anyway, I decided to experiment with acrylics for this one. I only use acrylics when I'm doing fluid paintings but I enjoyed using it to paint the waves.
#letteringpoets with @amajoletters & @desert_dwellers
In the morning a crow a duck a rabbit a heron all with their own secrets their own movements their own ideas their own wholeness. /
The marsh grass still laying down where it slept and high summer suddenly pulling my hand and showing me Look how lush look how rich. These are the red vine lines of wild strawberries running summer ink into the earth. /
I walked with a friend down to the shore where she played as a child we walked on the sand within the stone outlines of the rooms of her old playhouse That's the fridge and that's the cake she said It was always the cake, pointing to a large stone.
Harper hung in cemeteries, where he rarely made a sound except the bending grass beneath his feet as he meandered between epitaphs. Each evening he would meet with ghosts who spoke to him from pearls of dew that perished in the dirt before he learnt their names.
April stayed out late as well but dwelled with different spirits, telling jokes to empty glasses from the last seat at her little bar, the star of weekday evenings. Her friends would tend to come and leave between the turn of suns, though never much concern to make acquaintance with familiar faces ever graced her since she'd been convinced companionship came mixed in ice with bitters.
One morning just before the sun sent more than subtle hints at waking--almost, but not quite, importing light of day--Harper parted ways with the expired souls he styled fellows, and he filed from the iron-gated graveyard as the ether leisurely bloomed into dew. Not far from there, where asphalt streets retreated into alleyways--alive with wild sheens of neon diving from the window panes of places always open--April raised a toast and closed the door behind her night before the morning light could make a more assertive argument against another drink. In passing, April scantly paid a glance that Harper hardly noticed. But both were somehow overcome by something so engrossing only after moving on did either take a second look, and only when they turned to see each other out of sight did they discover what the both of them determined might be love.
A moment passed, as happens often in the turn of time, and with it went the breath that ended April's life. Not Harper nor another learned the purpose for her fate, or even that she'd been intered within the very cemetery Harper used to visit, for in the instant that she vanished it so happened Harper apprehended that he had a thirst the first to him which only spirits of the ilk that April drank could sate.
And so it was that Harper took her place there at the lounge while April made her jokes with vapors in the evening and when morning came she glistened in the dew that fell in lonely pearls unvisited upon the cemetery grounds.
proprietor (n). . It has been a year of re-claiming agency over my body. In so many ways it feels like my body has betrayed me, and I am on the ever important, messy journey of making friends with my softness, my tired eyes, my irritable skin that shows off stress and straining, my achy chest, my tight shoulders.
With each poem I include a photo (not always shown on Instagram because of space but always included on the full blog posts), and I scanned through so many of beautiful women with lovely bones and features, and then felt it important to share this one instead. Here I am in my usual writing uniform, pantless and in a grubby old shirt. When I look at this I see my four days unwashed hair, smudged mascara that won't come off, heavy eyes, bruises from being so clumsy, softness and curves that I wish were more trim... not appropriate to share. And that's why I share it.
it is a serious thing
to carry a body through this world
to keep a heart beating
to shield it from the elements
and the dangers of man
to tend to open wounds
achy joints and muscles
to keep it strong and nourished.
it is not too much to call it a miracle
that these lungs keep filling up with air
and pushing out what is no longer needed,
a pulse that, if nothing else,
is a reminder
that time is passing
and life is still arriving to me.
it is too much a tragedy that
I have spent much of my life at war
with my body's softness,
I have grimaced at features
masked myself in makeup and clothing
I have worked hard to try and take up
it is a radical thing
to be at home in ourselves
and I have spent much of my life
pushing myself away
pressing myself onward, too far out,
plummeting myself into too much striving
preparing myself to be presentable
puncturing myself with words that stain.
it is a serious thing
to carry a body through this world
and there is too much work to be done
there is too much beauty to fight for
to continue this daily renouncing
of the grams that make me up
and carry me through softly surviving.
-[• A serendipity•]—— —— She appeared to have shaped by the most bipolar components of fate, ——- Varying her avatars from a nourisher to a punisher, -——The ability to teleport to a realm of two people, where serenity flew in rivers of serendipity . ——She had the ability to caress like a mother, make love as a wife and protect in the dark like moonlight.
I probably won't make sense tonight.
For sometimes it's okay to not decorate words.
I remember writing numerous pages of diaries when I was growing up.
I had no one, no one at all to share my thoughts with. It wasn't like I was some loner. I've always had friends. But there were many things that I wanted to keep to myself, as I used to think that no one thinks the way I do and they won't get it. So, the diary came in.
As I grew up, I met some beautiful people - people who loved me the way I wanted to be loved. And for years, I did not feel the need to touch my diary. I hardly wrote what I thought, as I always had people, those beautiful people with pure hearts to share my happy/sad little things with.
Then, I grew up a little more, turns out that 10 year old kid was right about all the stuff that 18 year old teenager thought was wrong.
Pen and paper will always be there. No matter how many years pass by, they'll be there.
Because unlike people they don't change what they say.
I know I've tried hard to be whatever I'm today. I was a shy kid - someone who was always afraid to talk to people, who used hide behind her mother. And all the way from then to now, from a 5 year old shy little girl to a 22 year old woman who understands what she wants, it has been a tough journey. I've always pushed myself harder to come out of that zone.
So may be I won't give up on this.
Because this is what I wanted to become. Because this is what I should be.