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© 2016 abruvanamedsly

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Youtube/Dear Poem


Welp I decided to take one of my older poems entitled Dear Poem and turn it into a Youtube video...#testingthewaters




2 comments:

Freyja's Tears (20/30)


The prompt for day twenty over at NaPoWriMo was to write a kenning poem. Kennings were riddle-like metaphors used in the Norse sagas, basically, ways of calling something not by its actual name, but by a sort of clever, off-kilter description.
 



She
is the glow of
Grímnir's lip-streams;
a sky-candle
warming a wound-sea.

I live in the
serpent's lair of her voice
which crashes upon my heart
like Ægir's daughters.

Not even the
sleep of the sword
will keep me from her.




© 2016 abruvanamedsly




1 comments:

How To Fall in Love (19/30)


The prompt for day nineteen over at NaPoWriMo was to write a didactic poem which explicitly seeks to instruct the reader in some kind of skill or knowledge, whether moral, philosophical, or practical. This is what I came up with.




Learn to take a lightning bolt thru the chest;


live with skin constantly birthing goosebumps;


be prepared for time to dissolve;


embrace the transition of me to we;


compromise and compromise;


revel in the unknown, 


fall,


come up for air,


fly.




© 2016 abruvanamedsly




Fly


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C’mere!!! (18/30)


The prompt for day eighteen over at NaPoWriMo was to write a poem that incorporates the sound of home. Think back to your childhood, and the figures of speech and particular ways of talking that the people around you used, and which you may not hear anymore.


 

Asswhuppin’s
were the soundtrack
of my childhood;

I was curious
and hard-headed
which lead to an orchestra
of corrective concertos
beginning with either
COME HERE or JUNIOR!!!;

a belt or switch
conducting a symphony
of discipline heard
throughout my
apartment building.

I loathed this music
but wouldn’t trade
in the lessons learned
from it on my worse day.



© 2016 abruvanamedsly


Belt

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Corazón (17/30)


The prompt for day seventeen over at NaPoWriMo was to find either on your shelves or online, a specialized dictionary and write a poem that incorporates at least ten words from this specialized source. I chose the Oxford Spanish Dictionary...


La noche


calls as la luna


and las estrellas


dance across the sky.


My temperatura rises


causing sudoroso palms


to become el fuego;


I try to remain calma


but amor is drowning me


in un río of twilight;


deseo floods the 

inside of my chest.




© 2016 abruvanamedsly





2 comments:

In Veins (16/30)


The prompt for day sixteen over at NaPoWriMo was to fill out, in no more than five minutes, the following “Almanac Questionnaire,” which solicits concrete details about a specific place (real or imagined). Then the challenge was to write a poem incorporating or based on one or more of your answers.

Almanac Questionnaire
 

Weather: magnificent
Flora: cherry blossoms
Architecture: historic
Customs: hand dancing and go-go music
Mammals/reptiles/fish: snakehead fish
Childhood dream: to be an architect
Found on the Street: money
Export: mumbo sauce
Graffiti: Cool Disco Dan
Lover: Cherry Wine
Conspiracy: many
Dress: sandals with socks
Hometown memory: going to Hains Point
Notable person: Marion Barry
Outside your window, you find: bars
Today’s news headline: Police: Man Who Allegedly Shot, Killed Firefighter Released From Custody
Scrap from a letter: the blood will never come off…
Animal from a myth: sphinx
Story read to children at night: psalm 23
You walk three minutes down an alley and you find: trouble
You walk to the border and hear: go back to DC
What you fear: stray bullets
Picture on your city’s postcard: U.S. Capitol


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
Washington, DC


is a historic and 


magnificent place; 


cherry blossoms seduce 


tourist while hand dancing 


and go-go music
course 


through the veins of this city.


I often walk down 


memory lane in 


sandals with socks 


drunk off Cherry Wine 


remembering the taste 


of mumbo sauce while 


reciting psalm 23;


stray bullets ensuring


the blood will never 

come off
.




© 2016 abruvanamedsly



 



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Breasts (15/30)


The prompt for day fifteen over at NaPoWriMo was to mark the halfway point of the 30-day challenge by writing a poem that incorporates the idea of doubles. You could incorporate doubling into the form, for example, by writing a poem in couplets. Or you could make doubles the theme of the poem, by writing, for example, about mirrors or twins, or simply things that come in pairs.




a woman’s bosom
taught me all about comfort;
lessons continue.




© 2016 abruvanamedsly





Pam


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In Whispers (14/30)


The prompt for day fourteen over at NaPoWriMo was to attempt an eight-line poem called a san san. It repeats images and the rhyme pattern for it is a-b-c-a-b-d-c-d. I remixed this pattern and added another line #poeticlicense 


We live our lives on a wing and a prayer 


hoping to take flight before death comes
 

like a thief in the night; each second a blessing
 

caressing a wing and a prayer staving off despair.
 

Our hearts hoping to take flight, steel drums

beating away like a thief in the night; no more guessing

about how immortal our souls can truly be;

love, a thief in the night who enjoys undressing

our immortal souls which have finally been set free.




© 2016 abruvanamedsly





Whisper


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Fortune (13/30)


The prompt for day thirteen over at NaPoWriMo was to write a poem inspired by fortune cookies; welp this post isn’t a poem but it was fun to create...


cookie













1 comments:

Modern Romance (12/30)


The prompt for day twelve over at NaPoWriMo was to write an index poem. You could start with found language from an actual index of a book, or you could invent an index. I chose a mix pulling most of these excepts from the book Modern Romance by Aziz Ansari.
  


smartphones, 31-32; phone calls, 7; text messages, 35; long-distance relationships, 229; sustained interactions, 146; putting time and effort into, 138; connectivity, 251; endless back-and-forth, 52-53; passion, 214-18; sexting, 178-84; Lust in Translation, 205; deep connection, 20-21; falling in love with, 21; silence, 66; Love in the Time of Algorithms, 96;




© 2016 abruvanamedsly



Romance



1 comments:

Slit (11/30)


The prompt for day eleven over at NaPoWriMo was to write a poem in which you closely describe an object or place, and then end with a much more abstract line that doesn’t seemingly have anything to do with that object or place, but which, of course, really does



The sharpness
of the blade glistens
like a chrome sun;
its edge dancing
on a tightrope of
sin and salvation.

It grazes my wrist
then I watch blood
pour from veins like
a sangria sunrise;

amazing how
brightly light
shines when things
come to an end. 





 © 2016 abruvanamedsly

 



 

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Prey (10/30)


The prompt for day ten over at NaPoWriMo was to write a “book spine” poem. This involves taking a look at your bookshelves, and writing down titles in order (or rearranging the titles) to create a poem. This is what I came up with…


Our religions;

necessary illusions

manufacturing consent.


Cities of the world

behold a pale horse;

blackbird singing,

my lord, what a morning.





© 2016 abruvanamedsly





 

1 comments:

Going Back (9/30)


The prompt for day nine over at NaPoWriMo was to write a poem that includes a line that you’re afraid to write.



bills and alarm clocks,
I hate being an adult;
childhood is calling.




© 2016 abruvanamedsly



child

2 comments:

Arrangement (8/30)


The prompt for day eight over at NaPoWriMo was to write a poem about a flower; I chose the plural route...


If petals
could speak
they would
probably whisper
your name like
an incantation;

their fragrance 

intoxicating as
your beauty.

I sit and stare
at this arrangement,
especially the tulips
dreaming of touching
your two lips;

I swear those
flowers moved
then blew me a kiss.



© 2016 abruvanamedsly


flowers

2 comments:

Palpitations (7/30)


The prompt for day seven over at NaPoWriMo was to write a tritina. The tritina is a shorter cousin to the sestina, involving three, three-line stanzas, and a final concluding line. Three “end words” are used to conclude the lines of each stanza, in a set pattern of ABC, CAB, BCA, and all three end words appear together in the final line.



We touch each other with eager hands
skin tattooed with sighs and dreams,
sunrises birthing inside our chest.

Our memories locked inside a chest,
time moves like a clock with no hands;
days feeling like unspoken dreams.

The moon makes love to our dreams,
uncaging the beating inside our chest
sweat and stickiness drowns hands.

Hands live out dreams; chest learns a new rhythm.



© 2016 abruvanamedsly



heart

4 comments:

Chocolate Silk (6/30)


The prompt for day six over at NaPoWriMo was to write a poem about food. This could be a poem about a particular food, or about your relationship to food in general; guess what I wrote about.


I put my mouth
on you like 
I mean it;
tongue becoming
baptized by
chocolate silk.

Flavors spool
themselves around
my taste buds like
a greedy lover;

every thread of
goodness holding
senses hostage.

I allow myself
to be held captive
at least once a week.




© 2016 abruvanamedsly




Nutella

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Love In A Mist (5/30)


The prompt for day five over at NaPoWriMo was to spend some time looking at the names of heirloom plants, and write a poem that takes its inspiration from, or incorporates the name of, one or more of them. I chose Love In A Mist.



We live
suspended in
droplets of hope
and destiny rising
and dancing like mist
on Sunday morning;

the heat of desire
clashing with the
coolness of nerves.

We wrap ourselves
around one another
drowning time and
erasing the word 
disperse from 
existence.



© 2016 abruvanamedsly




mist

1 comments:

Cold (4/30)


The prompt over at NaPoWriMo for day four was to write a poem in which you explore what you think is the cruelest month, and why.



Everything is frozen


in January


from the temperature


to memories which


form like jagged icicles


breaking and puncturing


the walls of a heart desperate


to remember the warmth


of happiness.




© 2016 abruvanamedsly



scent

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James Evans (3/30)


The prompt for day three over at NaPoWriMo was to write a fan letter. I was going to do an anti-fan letter, but then this person popped into my head…



Damn, Damn, Damn,
was the harrowing cry
many folks felt the day
James Evans suddenly died.

A father to the ghetto
never misunderstood,
patriarch of a family
that could have easily existed
in any poor neighborhood.

He didn’t spare the rod
for the spoiling of a child;
working odd jobs for pennies
while the economy was in denial

of how much it took
for people to survive
faced with temporary layoffs
and chow lines contrived.

John Amos,
your portrayal
of James Evans will
forever be out of sight;
even when mired in
downtroddenness, your
performance made being a dad
seem DY-NO-MITE!!!




© 2016 abruvanamedsly



John Amos


1 comments:

Closing Shift (2/30)


The prompt for day two over at NaPoWriMo was to write a poem that takes the form of a family portrait. You could write, for example, a stanza for each member of your family. You could also find an actual snapshot of your family and write a poem about it, spending a little bit of time on each person in the picture; challenge accepted!



Tequila Rose was the first one chose;


Grey Goose knew how to get the party loose,


by 1am, Jack Daniel’s was whispering amen.


Jose Cuervo never said no,


while Absolut always knew the truth;


working in the restaurant life 


can have a tendency of turning


firewater into your best friend, 

mother, 

lover

and 


wife.




© 2016 abruvanamedsly








2 comments:

Amrita (1/30)


Welp here we are again; another year of NaPoWriMo. The prompt kicking off day one was to write a lune which is an English-language haiku consisting of three lines and a 5-3-5 syllable count. Happy Writing



she smells like starlight 
and cherry wine; 
her scent invites sin



© 2016 abruvanamedsly



scent


1 comments:

Inhalation


My lungs are
learning how to
breathe without bumping
into barb wire;

I stopped
coughing up
razor blades
but can’t seem
to stop sending
moments to Auschwitz.

I sabotage
a beating heart
throwing grenades
with invisible linchpins;
the shrapnel splattering
across a face
vandalized by tears;


breath so broken each
inhale becomes ether

Throat transforms to napalm
scorching the chest like
a burning village.

I touch my lips,
close my eyes and remember;
feels like the easiest breathing
I’ve ever done was when she
listened to me
fall asleep.





© 2016 abruvanamedsly



burnt


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We Are...


We are...

space in
between the
stars;

darkness that matters.

The night
sky hugging
the moon;
black
butterflies
dying too soon.

An
onyx dream
bleeding all over
alabaster
nightmares;

obsidian
that slightly
cracks;
the
memories
of scars on
ancestors backs.

Coal
birthing diamonds;
blackboards rebelling
against chalk;
ravens slick and
beguiling;

coolness reminiscent
of A Man Called
Hawk
.




© 2015 abruvanamedsly


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The Why Of It


Why do any of us write poetry?

Specifically, why do I write poetry?


I use to be really sure about my poetry goals when I first started. I was going to go to grad school, maybe publish some books, possibly teach and do some globetrotting along the way. But like any wannabe poet who reads actual poets who have their shyt together, I spent more time questioning my abilities than using them.


Well written, well edited poetry can either inspire you or have you wondering why you wanted to be a poet in the first place. I rationalized my doubting by saying to myself even those who've been published had to start from somewhere; no one comes out of the womb with Strunk & White in hand. What I did most though was remind myself modern day bards move from poetry varsity to the pros by...wait for it ---> ACTUALLY WRITING POETRY.

Not sitting in front of a laptop waiting for words to swan dive off of eyelids onto a screen; or use journal pages for grocery list instead of the pulse of living. Yes, just like a job, writing poetry takes work.


Malcolm Gladwell studied the lives of extremely successful people to find out how they achieved success and came to the conclusion that it takes roughly ten thousand hours of practice to achieve mastery in any field.

I’m a few thousand hours short on practice, but I've definitely got em’ all beat when it comes to thinking about writing poetry, easily.

Aye, there’s the rub.

Nothing comes to sleepers but dreams.


A lot of us poetry folk are dreamers at heart; some better at dreaming than writing. We want to pimp slap oppression with stanzas, terza rima injustice and racism into oblivion; generally make the world a better place one metaphor at a time. I know I would spend so much time dreaming about words and what they could do, I occasionally forgot that writing them down was a big part of the process.

In my social networking life, I’ve seen what can be accomplished with the marriage of effort to practice. I have quite a few friends who’ve moved their writing dreams into the realm of reality with hard work and determination, which makes me hopeful about my future. Even though I may be a master at procrastination, I've never forgotten why I chose to write poetry; to connect myself to a world I always felt disconnected from, to make prayers visible and give voice to my imagination.

Even in times of doubt, when the question of why arises, I’m still enough of a poet to answer it with a resounding why not?
 


#keepounding




 

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It Creeps In...



I'm sad. 

There I wrote it. 

I'm not looking for pity or coddling in writing this statement. It's more for my own edifice; a deliberate declaration of defiance against lying to myself. The holidays it seems are a catalyst for sadness to creep up on me out of nowhere. I've been good at hiding it over the years but now it's drowning me like a flood and somehow that's okay. 

My father died 33 years ago today and I can still feel the vibrations of hearing my mother telling me he was never coming home again...ever. It's like an echo becoming louder when the New Year approaches; today it reverberates deep into my bones. 

I think I've held on to so much of this sadness because I've never grieved properly after his sudden death or the sudden deaths, murders and passings of family and friends; I often wonder if there is ever any proper way to deal with it? 

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross provides a template to follow but in reality there is no magic bullet for alleviating it. As a boy I was always taught that men don't cry and you have to be strong for the others around you. I would see examples of my father and uncles seemingly unaffected by tragedies and deaths and wondered how could they not want to cry or be sad? I was, but I emulated their cues and learned how to hold it in. 

Even when I've been fortunate enough to be able to share it with someone, I felt like I was burdening them. Even now while composing these words it almost feels wrong but I receive strength in knowing that in the human experience none of us are immune to it; it's how we handle it that makes all the difference.

I know I can't keep doing the same thing and expect a different result. So in writing this post I make an acknowledgment to embrace my sadness for there is indeed a quiet serenity in letting it pass through me.

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