Self-Portrait (a Poem for Day Seven of PAD)

I am not thrilled with the below poem, but since I want to keep up with the challenge, I'm posting it anyway. I will probably get around to editing it someday. It was written for the Day Seven prompt for PAD:

For today’s prompt, write a self-portrait poem. Pretty straightforward, right? That doesn’t mean there’s not a lot of room for creativity. Just look at artists and their self-portraits; there’s a lot of differences in the self-portraits of Kahlo, Schiele, Dali, Van Gogh, and others–and not just because the artists look different themselves.

How Do You See Yourself?

Self-Portrait

I am letters rearranged in countless
combinations. I am still life of The Scream
with fruit. I am watercolor instead of sketch.
I am outstretched seams of secret
pockets. I am globs of paint with no
instruction. I am mountain peaks
and carrot tops. I am metal detector
built of fleshy heart. I am inedible carets
and ampersands. I am search-and-rescue
for drought-plagued worms. I am a hot iron
leaving no impression. I am blown away,
weightless, like love’s heartfelt wishes
on dandelion seeds, forgotten
once out of sight.

*****

Where Does Poetry Come From? (And a Poem for Day Six of PAD)

Before I talk about my poem for Day Six of the PAD challenge, I have something to say.

I'm okay.

Some people have expressed concern for me over the last several months after reading my poetry. Yes, I have had my heartaches. And I imagine those bits of me will never leave, but I'm stronger now than I've ever been. Of course I have had my difficulties, too. I'm not perfect and can't imagine I ever will be. I don't think that would be much fun anyway.

When I write poems, I dig down into those pieces of my life that have brought on despair and try to express them in a new way, though I don’t consider poetry my therapy. (That doesn’t mean I think that process is bad; if it works for you, then carry on.)

I am continually working on my craft. Sometimes I “write what I know” and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes random things trigger a memory from which I build a poem. And sometimes I guess. 

Mostly it is me playing with words and emotions.

That said below is the result of my “playtime” for today, a poem that came from a real heartbroken part of me.

The Day Six prompt:

“For today’s prompt, write a night poem. Vampires and werewolves? Cool. Clubbing and saloons? You got it. Lovers together alone? Right. Ex-lovers alone on their own? Sure thing. You figure out your night poem–and, yes, (k)night poems are fine too.”

 

All That's Left of My Knight Is His Armor

Every Night is the Same: Lasionycteris (Hairy and Nocturnal)

Night brushes her eyelashes
over my broken heart.
She calls them bat kisses,
lingering upside down, suckling
on unsuspecting creatures
darting in and out of my shaded dreams.

My eyelids twitch of memories
no dream can help me
to escape from, so awake I stay.
I feel your hand better than you do,
your body numbed from daily rituals
you’ve adopted to forget me.

*****

Discovering I Am Not over It Yet (Day Five of PAD)

Today's PAD prompt:

"For today’s prompt, write a discovery poem. The narrator could discover an object, a person, an animal, a dishonorable deed, or any number of things. Poets can focus on the discovery, examine the aftermath, or even just mention it in passing."

The Jetty Lives On

I sit alone in my Jeep with no words
at the ball field, wind so strong it sounds
like the stormy ocean waves splashing
twenty feet above the jetty the last time
we stayed there. Off in the distance
crowds cheer. And behind that, a jet
full of travelers invades the sound
barrier of my private time, the only place
I allow myself to cry anymore. A lone
red-headed hummingbird takes a quenching
sip from a bird feeder like the one in your prized
rose garden. I imagine you pressed into the seat
next to me, breathing, being proud of my son
the way you would if you were (still )
real. And then it hits me
all over again. You will be dead for the rest
of my life. And I must be part of the living.


*****