Still Here

AWAKE IN RAIN

awake in rain, appetite whet
relieved that the burning
was just another dream

the full images failed to set
too tossed in the turning
before floated downstream

where fishermen wait with old nets
and children watch, learning
why never pick a team

is this called hunger or yearning?
waking up is not what it seems

Twice Around the Lake is One Mile

I WALK IN CIRCLES

Back to woods and water, trees and sky,
Searching for this god you say is real.
I walk in circles, going nowhere fast.

I walk in circles. Is your god nearby?
Do angels gather thoughts I drop? I feel
Alone out here, just walking through my past.

Alone out here, with hawk and butterfly,
And fishermen who sit with rod and reel,
Praying to their gods with every cast.

Praying to their gods, to ask them why
They hide themselves, refusing to reveal
Who will win, and who will come in last.

Who will win this race to god? Will I?
I beg your god; I borrow theirs; I steal.
I need to find my own god, unsurpassed.

I need to find the god I hope is real.
We’ll walk in circles, going nowhere fast.

Mood and Weather, Both Bleak

INDOOR SONGS

no walk today
no woods, just rain
no pond, no sky
just indoor songs

no getaway
locked in my brain
no answers why
life takes so long

when angels say
they can explain
I want to cry
but tears feel wrong

instead I pray
ancient refrains
old words that I
hope keep me strong

no walk today
no breath, just pain
no outward sigh
just indoor songs

Welcome Rimas Dissolutas

WE ARE STRANGERS STILL

I introduce myself
As though we never met
Surprised you play along

You smile and name yourself
Who’ll give in first? Who’ll let
The other right what’s wrong?

We think we won’t forget
But love is not that strong

 

After having no luck yesterday, I almost gave up on finding a form today. I figured I could either take the month off (always my first choice) or just go back to writing whatever the hell comes out on any given day. I had been planning, half-heartedly, to so just that, to let June be formless. I was okay with the idea when it was part of a plan, as the halfway point in this year-long challenge, to see if having stuck with a form each month had made any difference in how I approached writing without that structure. That’s not the mindset I had, though, once I found myself here in June. I was floundering again, just as I have every month, so giving up on forms felt more like a failure than a plan.

I spent yesterday pouring through Turco’s The New Book of Forms, trying to settle on something: ballade, interlocking rubaiyat, madrigal, roundelay. All of them made me feel drained. I didn’t have the energy to write twenty-eight lines of anything. I didn’t want to think about rhymes and refrains. I thought that prose poems might be the way to go, but after reading Dawn Song by Wesli Court (the example given in this book), I wouldn’t dare. I wish I had the words to write like that, but I’m feeling like a wrung-out sponge. If I were to keep writing, I’d have to find something else.

Enter the rimas dissolutas. I hadn’t paid much attention to this one until a post on Writer’s Digest reminded me of it. There’s no set line length, meter, or stanza length. An envoi is accepted, but not required. In other words, there’s room to play. Still some structure, but relaxed enough that I could ease into it with something short if that’s all I had in me.

And that’s all I had in me.

A Final Bref Double, Slightly Relaxed

SPRING AMBLED BY OUR SIDE

More gray than green this spring too soon undone
By May’s hurried exit. She left without packing,
While June bursts in, taking for herself what’s
Left behind, bouncing on the bed covered in

Roses. Come play, she calls to the rest of us
Hiding behind closed doors, still mourning
Our friend. What will we do without her gentle
Smile and soft touch? She dried our tears when

March lashed out, so cruel. And kissed our cuts
Each time we fell, taking April’s dare to ride
Without training wheels. Impatient June is
Already calling her hot friends. Summer begins

Now. We’re all invited to the party. No crying.
Spring ambled by our side, but summer struts.