my marrow’s been dry
i give it a shake
hear it rattling inside
my bones
my heart’s been busy with another place
and just returned home
where ya been
how you doin
the same old questions each time
just got lost
just got lost
for awhile
Tag: Poem
How Are You?
i sing for myself
though man nor fawn listen
i jump over the bench and through the park
bidding you come and play
i dive into the pool fully dressed
laughing my teeth in view
i dance in the rain
i stomp puddles dry
i spin and soon
I’ll fall down laughing
laughing,
how are you?
About Pen Names
Hello, strangers and friends alike!
Do you write under a pseudonym?
My pen name is taken from The Kittiwake, a poem by Wilford Wilson Gibson.
With the struggles I’ve experienced in life, his poem holds special meaning. I find the Kittiwake represents hope, and this poem a struggle for achievement of any kind.
The pen name has intimate meaning to me, but I’m still grateful for my real name. I published a book of poems under my real name years ago as a challenge to myself. Nothing happened. It was a miracle. I thought the whole world would cave in and bad reviews be thrown at me night and day. Turns out, nobody cares! Which means I can happily keep doing what I love under a gauze of anonymity. It may seem backward– who doesn’t want their poem to touch a heart? I know it would make my day.
But the moment of publishing let me know my struggles were sand. just so much sand. And I could make of it what I would. It was an enormous relief. Like walking in the library and going-look at all those people who made their dream come true. Always a booster of le morale. Anyways, I don’t talk with you much, and just wanted to say I am so thrilled to be part of a community of writers and poets and creative people. and i want to ask you– what’s your pen name and why did you choose it? what does it mean to you?
The Kittiwake
by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
With blistered heels and bones that ache,
Marching through pitchy ways and blind,
The miry track is hard to make;
Yet, ever hovering in my mind,
Above red crags a kittiwake
Hangs motionless against the wind—
Grey-winged, white-breasted and black-eyed,
Against red crags of porphyry
That pillar from a sapphire tide
A sapphire sky. . . . Indifferently
The raw lad limping at my side
Blasphemes his boots, the world, and me. . . .
Still keen, unwavering and alert,
Within my aching empty mind
The bright bird hovers—and the dirt
Of bottomless black ways and blind,
And all the hundred things that hurt
Past healing, seem to drop behind
Midnight and Thirty
midnight and thirty
knocking of knuckles behind the drums
the build uncertain and frazzled
to crisp rapping
to silence
in the silence
the weeds grow
the soft, subtle swamps croak in
water freezing in cracks and worries
a thick line of sediment
separating me
defining me
i take my spoon
and begin to tap tap tap
at the dirt
Bring Me Home
in heaven’s boon
in brightest favor
entrance me home
before darkness sets in
but if in light of moon
i find my path is taken
oh, bring me home
before the cold sets in
though i would burn in frozen landscapes
to see the gate of home once again
the salt of years
burden me, I beg you
oh, bring me home
oh, bring me home
before some distraction beckons me wayward
oh, hear my song
Lord, bring me home
Hurdles
people really are listening
and that gives me pause
terrified of speaking
when the authority is my own
Daily No. 13
digesting Mississippi Pot Roast
winding my way through bright days
unending
i lose my way
i leave bits of myself
spend time gathering all back
to dump in the wastebin
broom’s worn out
no that’s a joke–
i lose my way
i leave bits of myself
for others to find
truly
there’s a blank screen pulsing
in my vision
unattached
i watch myself watching it
trying to decipher what it means
no
I’ve lost my way
and know how to go back
but don’t know if i want to
Irene Feels Better
she stopped singing
years ago
turned within
studying the veins in butterfly wings
-the great throbbing of her head
do you hear
she’d whisper
the wings of the world
the massive beat beat beat
we’d remain silent
Daily No. 12
a glimpse into the flower
the bullet still forming
on a stem over
blossoming
today’s mood light
today’s menu salmon
over and over in my mind
art
if destroying a moment is akin
to destroying a piece of art
then what of the artist in chaos?
when artwork represents an explosion of each relationship
do we still applaude
do we still
Daily No. 11
crickets and groceries
ever since the bearded dragon
came to stay
clockwork
terrible dreams bid me awake
hoping for smooth transition
into forgetfulness come dawn
that aftertaste that sours the day
knots your eyebrows
grounds your teeth
the anxiety of both real world bathed in nightmare and nightmare loaning its essence throughout your moods
AbyKittiwake 