tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24898036666309283122024-03-05T00:46:06.136-05:00The Germ of the IdeaPaul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.comBlogger335125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-68734105939215389192023-04-03T19:54:00.000-04:002023-04-03T19:54:14.970-04:00A malignant spirit's retreat, summer<div>Day three. Writing the "opposite" of a poem you like. That is, rewriting it using contrary language as often as possible. I chose an oldie I've had bookmarked for a long time - <a href="https://decompmagazine.com/saintjohnshospitalpsychwardwinter.htm" target="_blank">this poem</a> by Jonathan Brechner, featured in decomP many moons ago. </div>_________________________________________________ <div><br /></div><div>It disregards cruelty to create life. I've sprinted each hallway,</div><div>the letters scattered on a full-color body,</div><div>bland disorientation rough in my nose. Space is still,</div><div><br /></div><div>a ragged smell, bitter as a candy cane. </div><div>Every bright spot is silent, each one a paper folding,</div><div>clasping its free-flowing message. The thoughts</div><div><br /></div><div>ignore me if I scream, remain unspeaking, </div><div>frozen still like raucous snakes. I remove each one</div><div>from upon my shirt and send it away. The knowledge he granted</div><div><br /></div><div>is false, all of it failing, thin as pleasure, to stand</div><div>apart from these ceilings. Sometimes it drinks, dark clouds descending.</div><div>At 10:30 P.M. the walls will close, the purple women</div><div><br /></div><div>will leave me, build up each flattened floorboard, </div><div>steal vegetables from over my shoulder, their gazes lost among</div><div>the others so I may see. Even though I shy away, </div><div><br /></div><div>even though I whisper. </div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-57111664294120217342023-04-02T11:59:00.001-04:002023-04-02T11:59:57.667-04:00Seven questions<div>Day two. Today's prompt was to ask questions about a selection of words, ie: "What is ____?" Then, come up with abstract answers to those questions, and combine those answers in a poem My words were <i>acorn</i>, <i>gutter</i>, <i>longing</i>, <i>generator</i>, <i>river</i>, <i>seaweed</i>, and <i>owl</i>. </div>_________________________________________________<div><br /></div><div><div>An emblem of possibility. </div><div>Some ancient folklore's favored thoroughfare. </div><div>The body we buried with all the others. </div><div>Only a dream, a future left to rot. </div><div>Pack mule of the sky. </div><div>Unbloodied blades sinking through time. </div><div>An emptiness below the stars. </div></div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-9868136744300182862023-04-01T18:19:00.002-04:002023-04-01T18:19:41.812-04:00A story of reading <div>National Poetry Writing Month is upon us again. And so, the dormant Writer Brian rises from its long rest, and takes the first step toward seeing if it's still any good at this sort of thing... </div><div><br /></div><div>Today's prompt is based on a book cover. The one I'm working from is <a href="https://ar.pinterest.com/pin/the-visible-tobe-a-story-of-hand-reading-context-weblog--145241156717835519/" target="_blank">here</a>. </div>_________________________________________________<div><br /></div><div>A length of tendon rebounds</div><div>like a loaded guitar string - </div><div>feels like an "A." </div><div>Something dramatic, </div><div>poetic, </div><div>worthy </div><div>of medieval illumination.</div><div><br /></div><div>Next comes the word,</div><div>and it fizzes </div><div>under the nails</div><div>like an unqualified acquaintance </div><div>has wired the socket -</div><div>hairs on end, </div><div>voltage meter questionable. </div><div><br /></div><div>But we plough forward. </div><div>Plow? No, not yet - </div><div>edit later. </div><div>For now, the opening salvo, </div><div>and the covering fire, </div><div>and the last, defining volley. </div><div>Ride the lightning. </div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-5961915130313389582022-05-18T09:49:00.010-04:002022-05-18T09:49:52.806-04:00DiscussionsGone is the need<div>for patience. </div><div>Now, he can simply </div><div>wear the suit </div><div>and walk in screaming - </div><div>that usually leads </div><div>the whole room </div><div>to a satisfying uproar, </div><div>and then he can sit back </div><div>and wait </div><div>for the high walls </div><div>of propriety </div><div>to crumble like shattered glass. </div><div>Job done. </div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-2441587033787192522022-05-14T14:57:00.003-04:002022-05-14T14:57:44.811-04:00Hierarchy<div>Another weekly work, this one sneaking in just under the wire. </div>_________________________________________________<div><br /></div><div>At last, </div><div>we've built</div><div>a sturdy foundation</div><div>on the bones and dust</div><div>of nothing but</div><div>a thousand years</div><div>of someone else's</div><div>progress. </div><div>Now, </div><div>pomp and ceremony</div><div>akin to celebration,</div><div>brandishing hellfire,</div><div>lauding</div><div>the most vicious </div><div>enthusiasts' work</div><div>and children ascending</div><div>as angels - </div><div>but is it divine?</div><div>A thousand eyes, wings,</div><div>and a reach long enough</div><div>to touch men's souls? </div><div>The knowledge of things</div><div>previously unknown, </div><div>riches forbidden</div><div>to the lessors?</div><div>We thought not - </div><div>and yet, here,</div><div>with sarcastic flourish, </div><div>we are. </div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-91228710558033829582022-05-14T14:42:00.002-04:002022-05-14T14:42:28.293-04:00Destinations <div>Starting a new project with friends - writing one piece per week based on a shared theme/prompt. </div><div><br /></div><div>This one is late, and feels unfinished, but also feels sort of complete. Not sure where to take it from here, so this is how it stands. </div><div>_________________________________________________</div><div><br /></div><div><div dir="auto">The car rattled and made a sudden heaving motion - worse than before - and driver gifted passenger another repentant smile. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">"She's never let me down before," driver said, giving the well-dusted dashboard a somewhat less than inspired pat. The gesture was akin to a professional sport coaches' reassurances that his star player was definitely, totally, assuredly, no-way-no-how, <i>not</i> in the middle of a slump. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Passenger sighed and made no effort to hide a heavy mixture of doubt and annoyance. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">It may not have been so disconcerting were they traveling on a more well used roadway. This one - never mind being surrounded by a forest so foreboding it would have given Bigfoot second thoughts - had apparently been forgotten, a theory well-supported by faded paint lines and a slalom of axle-bending potholes. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">Despite the vehicle's age, driver managed to navigate these obstacles well enough to keep the voyage in progress, but passenger feared that if they were ever forced to stop, forward momentum would never be regained. </div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><div dir="auto">"I suppose this is a bad time to remind you that I said we should have taken the other exit," passenger said. </div><div dir="auto"></div></div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-16611923282215456012022-04-28T08:38:00.006-04:002022-04-28T08:40:55.036-04:00Baby stepsAnd now, a poem for Day 28 of NaPoWriMo. Today's prompt is to write a "concrete" poem - one that is written so that the lines take the shape of the topic of the poem, or mimic it in some way. <div>_________________________________________________</div><div><br /></div><div>First</div><div>it took an</div><div>age, or perhaps</div><div>more than one - in any</div><div>case it was quite a long time. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then, </div><div>it was fast, </div><div>critics might say</div><div>too fast, even, but that</div><div>is the curse of modern amenities.</div><div><br /></div><div>Finally,</div><div>it was most</div><div>sudden indeed, </div><div>like losing focus mid-</div><div>motion and tumbling</div><div> off the</div><div> next-to-</div><div> last step. </div><div><br /></div><div>Dust yourself off, check in, </div><div>no grave injuries incurred. </div><div>But then, one would surely</div><div>be forced to concede how</div><div>akin it truly is to falling. </div><div><br /></div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-49753351878440301612022-04-27T11:57:00.001-04:002022-04-27T11:57:33.472-04:00Messianic curseDay 27 of NaPoWriMo. Today is a "duplex," a form of sonnet with plenty of echoed lines - not straight up repetition, though, until the very end. <div>_________________________________________________</div><div><br /></div><div>A chain link is only as good as the next in line, </div><div>and our unity suffers for those broken we take in.</div><div><br /></div><div> The lie of unity pulls like an elderly, struggling engine,</div><div> puttering smoke as the treads of hope and progress fail.</div><div><br /></div><div>Smoke billows from the corpse of the future,</div><div>dancing ghosts mock our piety and ardent poise.</div><div><br /></div><div> They burned our piety at the stake, the damned skeptics,</div><div> the fat of our steadfastness crackling in their sneering mouths.</div><div><br /></div><div>Real treasures went first to the fattest animals,</div><div>grossly sedentary, but with rabid armies at their feet.</div><div> </div><div> The hordes departed and left us bloodied, wounded - </div><div> where now do we seek our champion, the unbound hero?</div><div><br /></div><div>Until the fanfare, the champion's call, stay sharp - </div><div>a chain link is only as good as the next in line. </div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-27062855362200501872022-04-24T17:56:00.020-04:002022-04-27T12:08:28.343-04:00Peeled<div>Writing this late, but it's for Day 24 of NaPoWriMo. The prompt was to write a poem using the style of similes often seen in hard-boiled detective novels, and the many spoofs thereafter. </div>_________________________________________________<div><br /></div><div>I was shocked to find him in such a state, </div><div>composed as he had once been, </div><div>like a Black Eyed Peas cover</div><div>of a Beethoven classic.</div><div><br /></div><div>He ate without remorse, </div><div>bits of old food enduring in his beard</div><div>like lemmings</div><div>that suddenly had a change of heart. </div><div><br /></div><div>I sat and begged him, </div><div>would he pause to reconsider? </div><div>He stared back in barren fashion,</div><div>eyes like dry, deserted sand.</div><div><br /></div><div>Finally I relented - no sense</div><div>in wasted time - and quietly left,</div><div>my hopes retreating like cowboy</div><div>who missed his sunset.</div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-21944798006098234612022-04-21T09:27:00.006-04:002022-04-27T11:58:16.664-04:00Forgotten trio Day 21. Today's prompt is to write in three parts: One about someone you knew well but are no longer in touch with, one about a job you previously had, and then about a piece of art you saw only once, but it stuck with you. Then, to ask an unanswerable question. I'm definitely going to forget something but here goes... <div>_________________________________________________</div><div><div><br /></div><div>Tunnel walls reflect</div><div>noise like mirrors</div><div>reflect things we'd </div><div>rather not talk about, </div><div>but that was all part </div><div>of the attraction, </div><div>as far as you cared. </div><div>Slow down to nothing, </div><div>then shatter the hollow</div><div>with filthy cacophony. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then in the days between, </div><div>hunched over monotony, </div><div>singing to myself - the same</div><div>eleven songs on repeat - </div><div>surely this would pass</div><div>enough time, and then</div><div>I could leave to see her again. </div><div>Something about winter, </div><div>our supposed escape, nooses</div><div>tightened by responsibility. </div><div><br /></div><div>Not much to say in horror, </div><div>a sudden accidental dose</div><div>of real life - well, a measure </div><div>more real than my own, </div><div>at least. Quick flash and</div><div>close the book, consider, </div><div>briefly, reopening it, indulge </div><div>the car crash fascination, </div><div>the depraved, rotting part</div><div>of the brain we drown out. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wonder, how many precious, </div><div>broken things will we try </div><div>to collect, and when will one</div><div>finally, mercifully, be enough? </div><div><br /></div></div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-70258522853771186762022-04-18T09:11:00.002-04:002022-04-26T17:52:05.233-04:006 am, phone callDay 18. Falling a bit behind but doing what I can. Today's prompt is to write five answers to the same question, without ever specifying what that question is.<div>_________________________________________________<div><br /></div><div>I. </div><div>Sometime in the morning - </div><div>early, too early - </div><div>when the dreariness </div><div>of February </div><div>is still too much</div><div>to bear. </div><div><br /></div><div>II. </div><div>Somewhere </div><div>there is a 14-year-old,</div><div>still terrified </div><div>to bring home </div><div>a failing grade, </div><div>a failure to succeed. </div><div><br /></div><div>III. </div><div>Weight crushes</div><div>everything, </div><div>a compression</div><div>of gravity, but</div><div>it feels </div><div>especially concentrated. </div><div><br /></div><div>IV. </div><div>Sometimes there is</div><div>a scream, </div><div>but no where else</div><div>to put it, </div><div>so it festers</div><div>and feeds like poison. </div><div><br /></div><div>V. </div><div>Rush to stitch up</div><div>what is inoperable. </div><div>Carry a new fear, </div><div>but worry not - </div><div>you will grow</div><div>accustomed in time. </div><div><div><br /></div></div></div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-8877445636010265992022-04-15T16:24:00.001-04:002022-04-15T19:10:28.607-04:00Don't read into it <div>Day 15. I'm still alive, just very tired. Back and off prompt with a wacky one this Friday. </div>_________________________________________________<div><br /></div><div>Here is my favorite</div><div>patch of grass. </div><div>It is fuller than</div><div>the rest of my lawn</div><div>and therefore</div><div>more deserving</div><div>of affection. </div><div>I try</div><div>as hard as I can, </div><div>look for</div><div>new ideas everywhere</div><div>to whip </div><div>the rest of the yard</div><div>into shape - </div><div>I feed it, </div><div>water it, </div><div>make sure it gets sun</div><div>(but not too much), </div><div>try all</div><div>the latest chemicals, </div><div>read to it, </div><div>sing to it, </div><div>tell it that</div><div>it is important</div><div>and loved, </div><div>but still, </div><div>I wind up </div><div>just taking </div><div>out the trash</div><div>myself, </div><div>every fucking week. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe this</div><div>isn't about my lawn </div><div>after all. </div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-31676132640253902242022-04-10T10:30:00.001-04:002022-04-10T10:30:27.683-04:00Again, in summer<div>Day 10 of NaPoWriMo. Today's prompt is to write a love poem. I had this simile pop into my head, and then it felt right to keep it rather simple today.</div>_________________________________________________ <div><br /></div><div>And there, together, upon the hood of a hand-me-down sedan</div><div>staring at the stars, all at once the separate threads begin to twist</div><div><br /></div><div>into a muddling of quick-sparking wires, inexplicably convoluted,</div><div>like a pair of headphones crammed carelessly into a coat pocket.</div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-50524325591077920942022-04-09T19:28:00.000-04:002022-04-09T19:28:08.293-04:00Could go either wayBack for day 9 of poetry month. I might have been totally stumped by the prompt for day 8, but this one was a little better. Today is a "nonet" - a poem with nine lines. The first line has nine syllables, the second line has eight, and so on down to the last line at only one syllable. _________________________________________________<div><br /></div><div>In life there is an ample spectrum</div><div>between certain and uncertain,</div><div>but then there is Uncle Dan,</div><div>who would not dare to bet</div><div>his last pack of smokes</div><div>on whether the</div><div>sun will set</div><div>in the</div><div>west.</div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-12486173580618272502022-04-07T09:08:00.003-04:002022-04-07T09:08:55.907-04:00Hustle<div>On to day 7. Feels like things are starting to flow again, which is nice. Today's prompt is to write something that argues against, or questions, a proverb or famous saying. </div>_________________________________________________<div><br /></div><div><i>If you snooze, you lose.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>The earliest train pulls into the station</div><div>before even the morning fog has woken - </div><div>a clanging, screeching devil with torque</div><div>to drag even the heaviest eyelids along.</div><div><br /></div><div>Good thing, too, you reckon. It is most right</div><div>to snatch every hour, to crack every egg,</div><div>to bend the will of every thought to productivity.</div><div><br /></div><div>And by the calendar's end, how to celebrate?</div><div>Extravagance, delicacy, a fully squeezed evening.</div><div><br /></div><div>But perhaps a short nap would have served better.</div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-2862368552004006982022-04-06T12:24:00.004-04:002022-04-06T12:27:49.037-04:00It's a wash<div>On to day 6. Happy to still be keeping up with this. Today is a variation of an "acrostic poem" (usually written so that the first letter of each line spells a word) where in this case, the first word of each line should compose a phrase, or perhaps a line of poetry or other writing. </div>_________________________________________________<div><br /></div><div>I'm certain this could have gone better.</div><div>A minor setback, then another, as when</div><div>leaf after leaf pluck themselves from safety</div><div>on a rippling plunge through snapped air,</div><div>the piles waiting as graveyards down below.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wind would have carried us more safely - </div><div>watch the currents shepherd their flocks,</div><div>how gently they come to rest after the fall.</div><div>I think, instead, we've been disposed to ill-fate...</div><div>Soar but once, and then rot beneath the snow.</div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-48466732514396009192022-04-05T20:23:00.003-04:002022-04-05T20:24:58.427-04:00Medusa's masonry mystery<div>Poetry Month day 4. A poem about a mythical creature doing something out of the ordinary for them. For some reason my mind went immediately to the style of a children's book, so here we go. </div>_________________________________________________<div><br /></div><div>Medusa woke to find one day</div><div>that all her stones had gone away.</div><div>She looked about, up high, down low,</div><div>but no results. Where did they go?</div><div><br /></div><div>Confused, afraid, she packed her bags,</div><div>the finest things, no standard rags.</div><div>She donned a pair of glasses black</div><div>and securely tied the snakes all back. </div><div><br /></div><div>Aboard a bus she did embark,</div><div>sat with a chatty man, and hark!</div><div>He'd seen a queer few sights, indeed,</div><div>among them all a marble steed. </div><div><br /></div><div>The Gorgon jumped - she knew that horse!</div><div>It must be one of hers, of course.</div><div>The man divulged his curious tale,</div><div>and from the bus she blazed the trail.</div><div><br /></div><div>Within the hour Medusa came</div><div>to gaze upon an open plain,</div><div>and there, the horse, but also more - </div><div>her entire collection, stones galore!</div><div><br /></div><div>Beside the plain there was a lake, </div><div>and lying in it, no mistake, </div><div>the god Poseidon, her former beau. </div><div>A lousier sight? She did not know. </div><div><br /></div><div>Poseidon spoke in words of silk,</div><div>but she knew the tricks of all his ilk.</div><div>She didn't care, she made it plain</div><div>and instead revealed her twisting mane.</div><div><br /></div><div>All at once the snakes furled out, </div><div>and set their gaze upon that lout. </div><div>And once her shades she did remove</div><div>he sat as sculptors would approve.</div><div><br /></div><div>Medusa laughed, a cackling sound,</div><div>and moved to gather what she'd found.</div><div>She left for home, this day eventful,</div><div>her collection now one piece more plentiful.</div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-29942851781243467182022-04-04T18:15:00.003-04:002022-04-04T18:17:14.042-04:00Owner's manual, chapter 67: On the subject of emergency maintenance<div>NaPoWriMo day 4. A poem written as a prompt, or in this case, a set of instructions. </div>_________________________________________________<div><br /></div><div>1. Split the Earth roughly in two.</div><div>2. Move every good thing onto one, and every bad thing onto the other.</div><div>3. Fill your bathtub with water. </div><div>4. Place both halves of the Earth in the water, taking great care not to tip them over and get the top sides wet - this would be cataclysmic. </div><div>5. Take the next several days and observe the following, in order:</div><div><span> </span><span> </span><span> a) Do they float?</span><br /></div><div><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> b) If not, how long does it them to sink, and which half sank first?</span><br /></span></div><div><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> c) Do any elements of the bad side make a great commotion and</span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> clamor </span>to be let onto the good side?</span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> d) Does your bathwater appear to be boiling, or show signs of having</span><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> previously boiled while you were asleep or otherwise occupied?</span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span>6. After the three-day observation period, note the state of each half.</span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span>7. Note your own state.</span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span>8. Drain the bathtub and remove the two halves.</span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span>9. Place them on an elevated platform, ideally in good sunlight, to dry.</span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span> </span><span> </span><span> a) If needed, you may also apply a fan turned to a low setting.</span><br /></div><div><span>10. Once dry, apply a generous layer of strong adhesive to each side.</span></div><div><span>11. Join the halves, and clamp tightly for security until dry.</span></div><div><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> a) This may take some time, so feel free to complete other tasks.</span><br /></span></div><div><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> b) Once again, a low-blowing fan may be of assistance. </span><br /></span></div><div><span><span>12. Return the Earth to its original place.</span></span></div><div><span><span>13. Rest. </span></span></div><div><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-39138613962840869882022-04-03T12:43:00.000-04:002022-04-03T12:43:19.373-04:00Burden remembrance<div>NaPoWriMo day 3 - writing a "glosa," a poem that explains or responds to another poem. It takes one section of and responds line by line, often including that line in what is newly written. Sounds complicated...let's see how this goes. </div>_________________________________________________ <div><br /></div><div><i>"Two feet of snow at my parents' place, in another season.</i></div><div><i>Here, the cicadas sing like Christian women's choirs</i></div><div><i>in a disused cotton mill. Belief is a kind of weather.</i></div><div><i>I haven't seen proper snow for three years."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i> - Erik Kennedy,</i> <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/145487/letter-from-the-estuary" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">Letters From the Estuary</a></div><div><br /></div><div>The mind wanders freely, to a time when it couldn't. </div><div>When it was tethered to tired, creaky, cement-covered hands.</div><div>Sealing up cracks in the foundation, doors slammed shut by</div><div>two feet of snow at my parent's place, in another season.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now it sees more, processes at a constructive pace.</div><div>Beams come in and filter out - an awoken landscape</div><div>where all life is an ocean's surface, trapped in wet heat.</div><div>Here, the cicadas sing like Christian women's choirs.</div><div><br /></div><div>But still the evenings buzz, far too fast to understand.</div><div>A thought and a wish and a hope, flung high and low,</div><div>eyes cast about like the dizzying spell of a hurricane</div><div>in a disused cotton mill. Belief is a kind of weather. </div><div><br /></div><div>Morning draws it to the umbrellas drying at the door,</div><div>the first warning of weight left ahead and behind.</div><div>Then, in a late afternoon's dream, it comes to me:</div><div>I haven't seen proper snow in three years.</div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-58983346256603359542022-04-02T15:12:00.002-04:002022-04-02T15:12:40.806-04:00Inenodable<div>National Poetry Writing Month, day 2. A poem based on a word from this Twitter account, devoted to "obscure and interesting English words." I scrolled for a while and then found "inenodable," which refers to something that cannot be untied.</div>_________________________________________________ <div><br /></div><div>Remove the heart.</div><div>Let it live on it's own</div><div>for a short while.</div><div>Become invulnerable.</div><div>Let it pay rent</div><div>and shop at the market</div><div>and talk about the weather.</div><div>Let it exist apart </div><div>from a binding cage.</div><div>Sustain irreverance.</div><div>Meet it for coffee</div><div>on Saturday mornings</div><div>and gobble up</div><div>the ghosts of your past</div><div>between sips of </div><div>vanilla latte.</div><div>Musn't weaken.</div><div>Drive together to</div><div>a snowy mountain</div><div>and remark on scenery - </div><div>there must be meaning</div><div>in an avalanche.</div><div>Withering still.</div><div>Open wide now,</div><div>it craves a safe return,</div><div>it craves a cage.</div><div>The cage is empty </div><div>without it. </div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-70658190941787076182022-04-01T19:15:00.186-04:002022-04-02T15:31:17.757-04:00An afternoon's adjournment<div>Mark this as my latest attempt to reactivate the creative parts of my brain. Will try to stay with the NaPoWriMo schedule of one poem per day for the month of April. This is for Day 1, writing a prose poem that is a story about the body. </div>_________________________________________________ <div><br /></div><div>Her mind drifts in uncatchable threads, each cast to a flowing</div><div>river of thought and drowned in rapids some moments later. </div><div>But this gives her no pause - it feels mostly necessary at the </div><div>end of a day like this one. Meetings, and meetings, and also</div><div>meetings, until a red, blinking laptop battery reflected her own.</div><div>It blinks ever onward now, peering from her bag in the seat</div><div>beside her. There is no solace in the cold glass of the train car - </div><div>it bounces her head back and forth until she comes away with</div><div>an embarrassing red mark. She rubs it gently, hoping her stop</div><div>comes before the ticket taker. She rests her elbow on the ledge,</div><div>and her cheek in her hand - perhaps finally, the familiarity</div><div>of her own skin can calm this torrent of actions and ideas that</div><div>threatens to leak out her eardrums. Now the vibrations are cast</div><div>between wheels and track, between train car and humerus, </div><div>and up her arm until they seem to counteract the frenzy in </div><div>her brain. "Ma'am, I'm sorry but we've reached the end of the line."</div><div>She'd forgotten where she was. "What?" An uninterested face</div><div>stares at her from the front of the car. "You need to get off now,</div><div>this train's going back to the yard." The fog stays with her as</div><div>she gathers her things and disembarks. She finds the nearest</div><div>bench and sits. Her laptop blinks at her. It's too quiet here. </div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-90380312768832142332021-04-02T12:20:00.002-04:002021-04-02T12:21:15.314-04:00Cancellation of a fever dream<div>a slow rhythmic drone</div><div>fleshes out a technicolor ribcage</div><div>until trapped lungs bleat for freedom</div><div>and the nerves drift from the body</div><div>a forest learning to flee</div><div>from a quietly pixilating soul</div><div>that spent too long throwing spaghetti</div><div>and forgot it needed to feed</div>_________________________________________________ <div><br /></div><div>Playing on YouTube at this very moment:</div><div>Sun Ra Arkestra, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bX_xh2do3eM" target="_blank">Seductive Fantasty</a> (the inspiration for this poem)</div>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-36765214728715876822020-04-07T14:05:00.001-04:002020-04-07T14:05:18.593-04:00Ears before eyesHours have lived<br />
and died<br />
in the space of this whisper:<br />
Something playful,<br />
but also unfriendly,<br />
the invitation to a fight.<br />
<br />
Anger is the twang<br />
of a breaking guitar string -<br />
startling, abrasive, then gone;<br />
all an act,<br />
and the remembrance<br />
of everything unnecessary.<br />
<br />
So he dances like<br />
leaves falling in autumn,<br />
barely aware of himself,<br />
and taken<br />
by even the slightest twist<br />
of an outgoing breeze.<br />
_________________________________________________<br />
<br />
Song of the Day:<br />
Shad, <a href="http://shad%20-%20the%20fool%20pt%203%20%28frame%20of%20mind%29/">The Fool Pt 3 (Frame Of Mind)</a>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-15398172422884349782020-03-27T16:34:00.000-04:002020-03-27T16:36:03.062-04:00Hold fastHe followed the last words of her goodbye like a set of muddy tire tracks - praying that, even as they faded ever too quickly into the grayish-black asphalt of the night, they wouldn't really disappear forever.<br />
_________________________________________________<br />
<br />
Song of the Day:<br />
Simon & Garfunkel, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J8i4Rp3qizk">Baby Driver</a>Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2489803666630928312.post-3177420100485646802018-05-03T09:02:00.001-04:002018-05-03T09:10:35.077-04:00What's still to come?<div dir="ltr">
Light follows your feet out the door, <br />
the briefest imprints left behind<br />
like prints on the beach,<br />
soon to disappear in the darkness <br />
of another hungry wave's pressure. <br />
<br />
Here we tumble in the surf,<br />
heads under feet, arms uncontrollable,<br />
deaf in the crashing calamity.<br />
But still: The sweating anxiety,<br />
the fear - what's still to come?</div>
<div dir="ltr">
_________________________________________________</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Playing on my Spotify at this very moment:<br />
Flying Lotus (ft. Kendrick), <a href="https://www.vevo.com/watch/flying-lotus/never-catch-me/GB5171400150">Never Catch Me</a><br />
(I can't quit this music video.)</div>
Paul Mullinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08342387711052394010noreply@blogger.com0