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Don't Fear The Weeper

writings from the mindpress of LAFogle

Tag: poem

poem

  • Forlorn and tired of weak sauce on my word salad

    Forlorn and tired of weak sauce on my word salad

    Lorn and forlorn are words I can get behind.
    ____Forlorn is more common nowadays: to lose,
    _________________forlost to the point of completion;
    ________________________________lost or left behind.

    I am           solorn
    lovelorn      hopelorn
    sadlorn          greedlorn
    thricelorn    sixpencelorn
    anxlorn    neurolorn
    sublorn    lostlorn
    hatelorn gherlorn
    deathlorn
    lifelorn
    alorn



    A psychic messaged me on Twitter to say there were snakes posing as my friends that would like to see my downfall. How cool is that?

    I don’t think so, though. Thanks to two years of Covid, I haven’t spent much time with peripheral friends. I’m at an age where loyalty is no basis for overlooking weird tensions or getting involved in pockets of social hierarchy. Many artists are looking to connect, but you can’t find simpatico vision if you’re maxing out your time/energy with the wrong people. You can tell the wrong people because they will ignore your work. If you work hard at writing, they’ll ignore it. If you sing, they’ll ignore it. If you make a video, they’ll ignore it. Whatever you accomplish, they’ll ignore it.

    I had a couple of nut sandwiches barely try to conceal that I was on the menu as they were trying to show off for each other. I almost burned the gymnasium down with my mind but got out of there before my face dropped too far. Can you imagine winding up to be surly with someone the moment they appear? Being so scrambled into caricature that internal reflection is not something your icons would have done? Hawking the scene from within a bad novella? One bumbler actually told me I was not in my place: “Blah blah shiny blah, I was surprised you got that bone of recognition because we didn’t sanction it and also so and so is so much better at what you do, don’t you think?” All I could think about was how they were going to dress up such a lame story when they retold that yawner to their sycophants, while trying to insert themselves as a bold VIP in some weak game of broken thrones for The Great Hierarchy of Mediocrity. #hierarchyofmediocrity.

    I had to get out of there fast as well, before my face fully morphed into the wolf-woman who feeds on outdated social roles. I had to get Hel, Baba Yaga, Kali, Keres, Eris, Nox, Scylla, Charybdis, all the Banshees, and some chimeras to talk me down. Why are these two so threatened by me? More accurately, why do so many women behave awfully toward other women?

    No thanks! I’ve seen this kind of thing a hundred times and every single time it results in a loss of time. No one cool acts like that. Talent in your arena helps everyone grow to the size of the tank. It is crucial to being in an actual arena. Stand by your vision, keep on with your work, and spend thy limited free time with people who appreciate you authentically, and not because it furthers their brand. You don’t need a train of people as you work on growing and understanding your artistic talents. Artists can determine if something is subjectively good without being told it is or because it is gaining in popularity. Music-poetry-art circles, by the very nature of art, could imply an intimate or transcendent connection, not some self-aggrandizing starfuckery.

    Between stars and celestial starfuckers, orbiting weak-on-weak gravity, debris attracts debris.
    Don’t be shackled to any false hierarchy. Honor yourself. See clearly.

  • writing prompts:  new to full moon in Capricorn 2022

    writing prompts: new to full moon in Capricorn 2022

    prompts: infinity tranquil solar perspicacity pop yawn hugs crisper dollops midnight

    January 2, 2022 to January 17, 2022

    from the new moon to the full moon in Capricorn


    You soar from sky
    to infinity in Blake’s
    grain, glisten like snowflake
    prisms, vapor altered
    states: ruby bronze
    azure chartreuse
    copper violet-rouge;
    Ephemeral bloodroot
    mulls on leaf mold
    and dew—Listen
    for the tap
    of bones when
    the fertile earth
    is ready for you.




    For each harsh word,
    I gained another tranquil
    ruffle on the lake, a solar
    marvel raring from a grayer day.
    I am the end intended, take in
    infrared, hug back the rays,
    appreciate the symbiotic
    interplay. You are the link
    that breaks these atoms
    into different shapes,
    my blood picks up the relics
    takes them to the places
    where they ionate to give
    my heart and marrow all
    the strength you could not
    spare to spare me. Take.
    Your best aim.



    “It’s called perspicacity. You explore, learn, reflect, and create with a comparably divergent drive. You’ll starve there. Actualize who you are and step into the light.” Maena crisply pierced the apple’s skin, tearing into its pulp before eyeing me. “Hungry?”



    Honesty grabs one hand, loyalty the other. Vertebral seams pop, the serpentine column dances toward a new center, landing in perse moments of exchange: phosphene stories of love and pain ignite the mind.

    The next words are butterflies.




    She yawned and threw the message into the icebox. Yowls, crackles, and hisses flooded the moment before she slammed the door. The icebox kept words chilled and sentiments on ice. Hugs from the crisper were non-existent. She cupped her hands under the faucet and splashed water over her eyes. From what she’d seen, this one could take some time to cool off.



    He felt the dollops of ink release and flow from some great telepathy of the sky; heard the phonological claps of thunder and mortal shock rain fractal words of the weary and fallen onto the page, like tears washing particles from a collective mind’s eye.




    At midnight,
    the witches gather
    and abdicate their veils,
    revel by the sconce
    of fearless perception
    on the winged misdivision
    of the adder and the newt;
    sing basilisk elegies and play,
    then fly away when lore
    gives way to darker hours.

  • Sing Along

    Image pictured: The King of Hearts was recopied by hand over time until his battle ax turned into an uncanny sword in the skull, from the fascinating article on the Suicide King by Simon Wintle on The World of Playing Cards website.

    I keep coming back to the same melody, like the one in this piece that just poured out. So today, armed with what are now eight verses, I will work on the song and whittle it down to two or three verses once the music bed is laid. I haven’t had a song knock this hard on my brain door in some time. Then again, I’ve never gone this long without singing. What a strange few years this has been, navigating the pandemic and trying to come to terms with who I am, what I want out of life, and what no longer fits my self-actualization as an independent thinker and artist.

    Sing Along

    I searched epochs for a muse
    like you, the pen sequences
    from this hand. Fits.
    Natural patterns move,
    send nurturance along a thread,
    rebuild the scaffold skeletonic
    comprehension.
    I love you, too.

    We’ve no control. Intolerance is
    worry fortified by stress, we
    targets show resilience; our childly
    needs were never met.
    Encouragement spurred
    from bereavement, celebrated
    those achievements acted on
    behalf of their own neglect.

    My heartstrings tighten, tune
    the songs that mourn rejection,
    search the faults for reassurance
    from the past, scrolling ghosts,
    and casting shadows
    on the places where love reigned,
    cut off the arms that shouldered
    blame. You fills the pages
    where your mark is honored
    in a future song.
    I hope you’ll sing along
    I hope you’ll sing along
    I hope you’ll sing along

  • writing prompts: from full to new moon in Sagittarius & Capricorn 2022

    prompts: barrage charm disguise quiet flashbacks reasonable spotlight passengers becoming renewals

    December 18, 2021 to January 1, 2022

    from the full moon to the new moon in Sagittarius & Capricorn



    The salesman used a barrage of charm to disguise his goal of extracting as much money as he could from her. She stood abruptly and announced she would return after lunch. “Wait!” He cried, “$100 off!” But she’d been advised beforehand: Don’t rush, read the fine print, and always be prepared to walk away.



    It’s a quiet connection now.
    Some nights, flashbacks blare
    and cough, their clamant yawps
    muffled by a stuffed shift.
    The redress alters me
    into a reasonable
    block of ice;
    thaw will come,
    internal, with hope
    renewed.


    The Ram

    A spotlight glances across the land,
    like twinkling stars to passengers
    headed east; The beast, it flies
    and reasons o’er the Black Sea.

    Ambassador Spectacular,
    hold on tight, don’t handle her;
    This chauffeur-alien won’t be fleeced.

    Backward, in the nick of sky,
    in dark absence of moonlight;
    it scans the clusters
    searching for its kind.


    “Das Zeichen des Bundes” from Genesis section of Augsburger Wunderzeichenbuch (ca. 1552)

    Words
    like tangerine spray glint,
    peel back a summer day when
    sunlight filtered longer
    through the pied air,
    becoming rainbows.

    But he never wants
    what he has,
    so he never gets
    what he wants;
    then you realize
    the circle disappears
    beyond the undying horizon.


    I’m proud of us: Strong
    and conscientious,
    hard-working;
    Our love renewals,
    delight for life,
    through growth, detach
    suspicion as we do from
    feeling what is good
    about a friend.

    We truly are
    each other’s people
    Agreed to expect
    our loyal best;
    To cast away
    sorrow.

  • poem: Think Highly

    Think Highly
    Its prickly thoughts drop
    pointed like tears,
    at times landing
    round and soft,
    pooling as a placid lake,
    lulling as summer rain
    Should all land in chance
    of familiar modal harmony,
    I’ll think highly of myself
    as often as possible—mantras,
    maxims, motivations taped;
    post-it notes on the window:

    Lay out the facts.
    Do your work.
    Trust your intelligence.

    Taped to my sun visor in my car:
    I love all of me, even
    my suffering and uncertainty.

    On a lunch sack in Sharpie:
    Love yourself & hold steady;

    if time, I’d written:
    Don’t get knocked off your love game.

    I eek around corners to add to mirrors
    double reminders. But none could keep
    me where I needed to be or keep
    you from getting angry.

    “Who do I think I am?” You asked.

    Yell echoes
    its sonic spell
    flicks an avalanche;
    the delicate enchant-
    ments buried in snow
    Search parties
    dig for the bones
    of our crumpled body

    On the long journey back
    to sense of self and confidence,
    slowly grows my clone—this one
    tattooed in reminders—to think
    highly of herself as often as possible.

  • poem: Regrets on the eve

    poem: Regrets on the eve

    Regrets on the eve
    I regret my angered broken
    heart, the warp on its record,
    and the times I tried to heal
    someone who’d understand.

    I regret the rip of loneliness
    into my solitude, that a few
    good friends weren’t enough
    at times. I regret trying
    to resurrect my lost family
    in reminders of connections.
    I regret my mind wasn’t strong
    enough to keep you with me.
    I regret love’s affectation on
    my gaping train of thoughts,
    too scared to tell you what
    I cannot confide to keep
    outside of my mind.

    There’s not a lot left to take
    into this new year now. I am
    content with who needs me,
    with the learning curve
    of each new sensation,
    in chats with the air
    and essence of minds
    before me. And even us
    before trust lost to fear.

  • Critical Secret

    Critical Secret

    Critical Secret

    Here is a secret:
    Eat every criticism.
    Bite into the outer layers
    with your bared teeth, feast
    on its soft vulnerable insides.
    If the center is hard then suck it
    awhile. Let unwanted pith dissolve
    away in your strong acid. It’ll all soon
    leave your body. Thank the ironic gods for
    giving challenging nourishment. And go about
    your work. Comments will keep til you’re hungry.

  • prompts: kind stuck spouse vulnerable worry journal conversations worry crisis worthy ribbon oracle rival

    November 19, 2021 to December 4, 2021

    from the full moon in Scorpio to the new moon in Sagittarius


    Jake choked off his last shred of objectivity with piercing confidence and rode off into some kind of loner sunset, with only the curtains to hold his hand. Our shared wonder dismissed as magical thinking, wheeled away for correction, argued away as naive—just to argue.


    stuck
    Kill or be killed, child.
    180 shots per intended minute.
    Unregistered plastic bag.
    Probable conclusion without a scratch.
    Presumed protection with intent
    to mutilate. Murdered property.
    Insurrection.
    Hip-hop cowboy, good gang, posse.
    Annie, Get Your Gun and a permit.
    Marissa, the wall has rights.
    Stand your ground unless stuck
    interpreting the lunatic
    interpreting the reason
    interpreting the law


    albatross photo


    The wandering albatross bow,
    widen their wings and scream
    at the sky; they circle, preen
    and snap at their spouse
    in a mating dance for life.

    Three million miles
    of soaring the skies,
    ever to return
    to the island
    of their love
    and birth.



    Vulnerable, the reliant pilot hides in a pride of clouds/
    seen, the sun comes out/ the complex speaks to the complex/
    lowers a bridge open to valuation, closed to faulted criticism/
    subject and object scatter, hide in the mirroring sky/
    light faces the page, not the eyes



    Thanks giving:
    Let the worry fall away
    from your clear eyes,
    For the world turns
    and we are in it;
    Should joy escape your mind,
    allow release to recommit
    compliments of reprieve
    from lifelessness.

    I am your cherisher
    thankful for each
    delicate moment.


    journal photo

    Wake and tell us what’s good, love, as the daylight
    reaches your mind. Promise to snuggle in deeper,
    cross the heart on your chest and hope to die.
    Code your secrets in my journal
    where I can read between the lines.





    “I had conversations, but the upper hand of the masher, phlegm, and baffled stranger would not salute. And the agro. Everything I said was ammo. So I gave him ammo. All of it.”

    Cere opened the lid to find furry teal blotches moldering the tops of the apricots.

    “Worry eats at your thoughts. I needed to be done with it.”



    “Recognize crisis mode. Deflection is a way to cope, but it’s pretext. We eventually have to move past it to understand the dissatisfaction that leads to a major life change.”

    “Huh. I’ll think about that,” Greg said. “You’re not mad?”

    “I’m working on a new perspective,” she said, taping up the last box. The movers would be arriving any time now. “Ultimately, I’m on your side and hope we get to share a better future. Call me after you’ve answered your own call.”



    two crows photo




    You are shiny,
    like teeth bared
    through organic
    murmuration.

    Is it the love shown
    or the love deserved
    that makes us worthy?

    Two lorn brood
    recuperate
    in innate pattern,
    flockwise;
    their calls imitate
    a wildish belonging.


    ribbon

    If I were a ribbon,
    I’d curl around your finger
    to remind you
    that I am always
    there. In spills of ink,
    siftings of sand, traces,
    and twisted strands of hair
    Snug between the wanton
    hand of death steepling in prayer.

    If I were your ribbon.




    oracle

    She placed her hand on the young king’s chest and closed her eyes: He floated in a river of blood, tethered to a casketful filled with paper money.
    Fire cremated the land into black ghosts pillowing the lusty blaze. Through the roar, he heard his name as a boy dipped a toe in from the shore.

    The oracle opened her eyes and locked gaze with the young king. “You have enough for now. Do not invade. Take a vacation with your son.”




    In returning warmth
    that refuses to leave
    the season,
    mistle breaks,
    disturbs a winter silence.
    Leave your contortions
    where misery can find its
    mirthless tune. I’m here
    in life’s harmoniacal quietus,
    a rival of the snow, parched
    as the ground, threshing
    its mortal boon.