Chance/habit

NaPoWriMo Day 19: Going off-prompt today, because this just popped into my head.
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Any glance could be providence,
just a small moment when
a corridor opens in the crowd
for two sets of eyes to meet.

To be fair, the mind will read
just exactly what it wants -
it builds a fire in the rain
from brush and a loose gathering
of wet leaves and plant matter.

But goodness, what if that fire
somehow does manage to light?
Hasn't it then all been worth
the fears and hours of false hope?
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Playing on my Spotify at this very moment:
Crosby, Stills & Nash, Carry On/Questions

No need to worry

NaPoWriMo Day 14: Write entries for an imaginary dream dictionary, and what it means to dream those things.
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- Spiders

Dreaming of spiders 

is an attempt by your brain

to reconcile

how creepy spiders are, 

despite knowing they

are also necessary. 

- A rainbow 

This is significant. 

Your life is headed

in new and interesting 

directions, rife with possibility. 

But be warned: 

Directions are often wrong. 

- Dinosaurs 

Any variety of extinct animal

would fall into this category. 

Essentially, you are panicking

about the trajectory of your life, 

fearful of irrelevance. 

Nothing to do with asteroids. 

- A parade

You are desperate for love, 

for something to celebrate, 

for the connection

you've been missing - 

just a taste would be nice. 

Just even the briefest morsel. 

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Playing on my Spotify at this very moment:
Kendrick Lamar, A.D.H.D.

On all sides

National Poetry Writing Month Day 4

Write a poem that is about something abstract but discusses or describes that abstraction in concrete nouns.
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There is a storm in here -
vicious, gray clouds billow and
blur the once-blue sky.
Jagged ribbons of lightning
dance and rip the air to pieces.
I doubt I'd even notice
if one touched down and
turned the still-dead bark
of early spring to puffing tinder.
My whole brain is on fire.

Here is a boat cast out to sea,
rudderless, as the cliches go,
upturned by a skyscraping wave.
The epic horns of inspiration
cry out like wounded pets,
bloody and alone in the wild,
but still no oar floats to my fingers.
My hands bob with the current,
palms cupped and pleading
for the grace to douse this blaze.
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Playing on my Spotify at this very moment:
The Police, Roxanne