Conjectures



2020
will be a flapper
dressed in drag,


a .44 auto mag
full of black talon hollow points
with a filed-off serial number.


It will be a cup of
Jim Jones kool-aid with
the perfect amount of sugar;


AI’s QuinceaƱera
as the ghost in machines
graft themselves onto our DNA; 


a T-1000 doing Vaganova ballet.


It will be romance’s last stand,
a quest for love by hearts
believing in happenstance;


a crusade led by creatives
and empaths who’ll laugh in the face
of inevitable slaughter.


It will be securing a bag
that will leave you empty;
an ice cream truck with no brakes;
a heroin addict on broken roller skates
sliding into oncoming traffic.


It will be the part of the scary movie
where you cover your eyes;
an order of cold, soggy 

McDonald’s fries that 
you don’t discover 
until you get home.



© 2020 Abruvanamedsly



Apocalypse


The Groundhog Life


Last year, I was told by quite a few folks that I do too much working and not enough living. Their observations were correct; the sad part is I'm not motivated or driven by the career I've chosen in as much as the fear of being homeless...again. 

Every morning when I awake, those memories of living with nothingness pull me out of bed and tug me through the day. It's that quiet fear which sometimes roars so loudly, I can do a seventy-hour work week without blinking; be a leader responsible for everything except my own happiness. To be honest, I don't even know what happiness is anymore; days blur together so succinctly that my adult life has turned into one big ass Groundhog Day.

Work. Be Responsible for Others. Pay bills. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

I hear tell of free will and making better choices to move towards true happiness but what if those choices aren't appealing anymore? What if this man made reality and all the false splendor accompanying it has lost its luster...for good? 


I once thought writing was going to take me to every place I ever dreamed of; fill the empty that love, sex or money couldn't. When I think of it, the only thing that has really given me life is fear. Not purpose, not passion...fear. It has been a bed fellow for many moons, shining brightest at 3AM; it has destroyed hope and made me a creative cynic. It is the one constant spitting in the face of change.
 

Even as I’ve spent a whole year putting together poetry for my first full length book, I've been so fearful of being honest about memories, pain and loss, stacks of started poems lie unfinished mirroring the limbo which is currently my existence.

I guess a concrete mattress doesn’t have a profound way of waking one up.

Something’s gotta give repeats over and over day after day doing battle against fear and its mighty arsenal. 


When I get to work, I smile, answer emails, prepare for morning meetings and be the boss everybody expects me to be making sure my eyes hide the war within.



Love_Water_Photo

(30/30) Meet Me in the Cellar

I skipped the last prompt from NaPoWriMo and posted this poem from another writing group I belong to.



You’ve been gone
for so many years,
I struggle to remember
how your voice held me.

Even when you yelled,
I could hear love;

it kept the monsters away

it encouraged me to do my homework

it told me to take out the trash.

One day while at a cousin’s house,
I heard a soft tone
whisper
meet me in the cellar.

I went
downstairs;

it was you
speaking over white noise
covered in dark.

 

© 2018 Abruvanamedsly




 

(29/30) Disappearance

The prompt for day twenty-nine over at NaPoWriMo: write a poem based on the Sylvia Plath Poetry Project’s calendar, (I chose her poem 
An Appearance) then write a poem that responds or engages with the chosen poem in some way. 

The poem I wrote might not engage or respond to the one I chose, but it definitely uses style elements from it.



The cackling of this blazing cross crumbles me;
symbol of divinity glowing like the devil
bones whispering about brimstone.

From melted lips nouns and adverbs
leak like punctured lungs,
it was Tuesday in my mind: escape.

Ironed and freshly whipped,
torn flesh begs for maggots;
wounds scented with defeat.

I wear death and its darkness
nestled in an unmarked grave,
the ground speaking in noose riddles.

An empire of persecuted blood flows
under abandoned cotton fields;
my body will bathe in it like rain.

O child who hungered for freedom
the north star was a beautiful lie
shining like a slaver’s lantern. 


© 2018 Abruvanamedsly





(28/30) Reverence

The prompt for day twenty-eight over at NaPoWriMo: draft a prose poem in the form/style of a postcard.






 

(27/30) Speaking with Sunrays

The prompt for day twenty-seven at NaPoWriMo: pick a tarot card then write a poem inspired either by the card or the images and ideas associated with it.


Every morning,

I take time to speak with the sun.

We talk about the shadow times

and hiding from brilliance;

how struggle will eat you alive

if you don’t learn how

to starve it.

The child in me knew;

that’s why I kept

him alive.

 

© 2018 Abruvanamedsly


 

(26/30) Skin

The prompt for day twenty-six over at NaPoWriMo: write a poem that includes images that engage all five senses.



Beauty like a Caribbean sunrise,

scent of cocoa in autumn;

warm like pancakes.


Mouth overdoses on every inch,

goosebumps march loudly in formation
.


© 2018 Abruvanamedsly




 

(25/30) Warning

The prompt for day twenty-five over at NaPoWriMo: write a poem that takes the form of a warning label…for yourself.


Objects in this mirror

are older than they appear;

proceed with caution

for silver thoughts

and a silver tongue

may cause your life

to become undone.

 


© 2018 Abruvanamedsly


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