blue-prosperous

[blue-prosperous]

However you want:

Your body, knitting, or words…

Just keep me warm, (…..)

—————————————

Tried to keep you warm

But maybe I tried to hard

Or not hard enough

[blue-prosperous]

For whom does the seed sprout,

To what end does it grow,

When all it is doing,

Is playing its part in nature's show,

Water the seed,

You will see the fruit,

A moment is an eternity,

Don't let it turn to soot,

Living is easy,

If you value your time here,

Don't let it get wasted,

In the pursuit of vain desires,

Be like the tree,

That eats not of its fruit,

Or like the river,

That drinks not of its waters,

A moment is an eternity,

Let it last so,

Drink the nectar that it offers,

You will yearn no more.

[blue-prosperous]

For four fore:

Epiphacal counter shading

And the hatch marks on wrists

Comforted by your fathers shadows

In the lord’s hands a lamb.

In your mother’s arms an angel

In the suns mind a martyred man,

Heart problems of an addict

Lungs cinched holy tuned into

that rubbery mess of older age

you wish on like another day.

Knighted by cigarette burns

And sixty years of silent lies,

Your feet fall wrong and curve

Your bones too bony skin too pale

Your eyes remind of purely that thing

Your body is wrong.

Your melded self is still wrongly shaped

Your demanded hands silver godless,

[blue-prosperous]

[blue-prosperous]

I think that the struggle

Is letting Calm find me

I'm so hard wired to do

Programmed to stay

In perpetual movement

Calm trails after me

Never able to lay hold

And even if she catches up

For a brief moment

I feel shame in indulging her

Still, all the good things

Are found within Calm

When my mind can be quiet

Long enough for my thoughts

To bubble up to the surface

Calm takes me in her arms

And brings out the better things

The creative side that is muffled

By all my frantic motion

Calm brings me back to me

[blue-prosperous]

SORRY GUYS I know I haven’t posted in a bit (I say as if I have followers)

but I’m going to try and post consistently just lack of writing motivation I might also post pictures here to go with my poems either way hope all is well

-yours truly blue <3

[blue-prosperous]

"One need not be a chamber -- to be haunted -- ..."

by Emily Dickinson

One need not be a chamber — to be haunted — One need not be a House — The Brain — has Corridors surpassing Material Place —

Far safer, of a Midnight — meeting External Ghost — Than an Interior — confronting — That cooler — Host —

Far safer, through an Abbey — gallop — The Stones a’chase — Than moonless — One’s A’self encounter — In lonesome place —

Ourself — behind Ourself — Concealed — Should startle — most — Assassin — hid in Our Apartment — Be Horror’s least —

The Prudent — carries a Revolver — He bolts the Door, O’erlooking a Superior Spectre More near —

[blue-prosperous]

a very short poem for august (s.r.m.)

[blue-prosperous]

While they wish

Bassalted will,

Emptied. on this rhinestone, fabric

Couch, floral-like wondering.

If I’ll ever smile like you cry.

Or pause

Before I run.

Shortened, to the bud

and stamped.

In this, molded corner I’m still

stuck in.

Shut-inward. and fold,

Because death is hard.

Quitting.

Running, for so long,

Is so hard,

Red blood white, roses.

blue ropes.

The American-dream

A statistic,

[blue-prosperous]

To erase—within the realm of poetry—any text, even a self-authored text, is a political act; the poetical act of erasure is one that necessarily exists always in a dialectical relationship with erasure as a stratagem of state violence. I knew then that if erasure was to be the chosen mode for this form—if I were to erase my own words—then this strategy must in some way resist the forms of erasure leveraged against me, or else it would only recapitulate this violence.

—Torrin A. Greathouse, “Writing from the Ashes: On the Burning Haibun” (2023)

[blue-prosperous]

La Belle Dame sans Merci by John William Waterhouse (1893)

[blue-prosperous]

“Once, I saw a bee drown in honey, and I understood.”

— Nikos Kazantzakis, Report to Greco

[blue-prosperous]

SARAH RUSSELL

[blue-prosperous]

Suddenly you’re not so young anymore. The people you were close to seem to have moved on and you’re left alone trying to fill the hole inside you with whatever you can no matter how unhealthy it is. You keep digging deeper and you keep pushing people away until you look into the mirror one morning at 3 a.m. and realised you never learned how to be loved and love in return.

And sure you’ve got your trauma but so has everyone else and they’ve managed it. So why can’t you? What is it that’s so insidious slithering beneath your skin that makes you like this? And you sit at the edge of your bed and your glass is empty and suddenly the sun is rising. So you go back to the bathroom mirror and you face yourself. But you can’t. You can’t look at yourself because you can’t accept that you don’t have an answer.

So in lieu of reason or an answer or something to fill the gaping wound in your chest you go back down the stairs. And you pour yourself another drink. The Trouble With My Reflection - SLR

[blue-prosperous]

The thoughts that counted and those who wait a burning haibun:

• first moments uneven, breaths and steps

•two nostrils flared at the charismatic fumes, Of exotic cheeses, and un-oiled rides.

•three hours more lost, spent in the crowded echoes shouts of children, shrouded in the feeling of your hand in mine and candy apples.

•four times we could've kissed but didn't, the moonlight wasn't right or yet ripe, each missed moment a ride to realize the comfort of simply being by your side.

•five weeks I spent dreaming of all we were, our wedding surrounded by friends and family, under that outskirts tree, the distance of us so close your perfume strawberry, your lips cherry and soft, lost time.

• first moments uneven, breaths and steps

•two nostrils flared at the charismatic fumes, Of exotic cheeses, and un-oiled rides.

•three hours more lost, spent in the crowded echoes shouts of children, shrouded in the feeling of your hand in mine and candy apples.

•four times we could’ve kissed but didn’t, the moonlight wasn’t right or yet ripe, each missed moment a ride to realize the comfort of simply being by your side.

•five weeks I spent dreaming of all we were, our wedding surrounded by friends and family, under that outskirts tree, the distance of us so close your perfume strawberry, your lips cherry and soft, lost time.

• first moments uneven, breaths and steps

•two nostrils flared at the charismatic fumes, Of exotic cheeses, and un-oiled rides.

•three hours more lost, spent in the crowded echoes shouts of children, shrouded in the feeling of your hand in mine and candy apples.

•four times we could've kissed but didn't, the moonlight wasn't right or yet ripe, each missed moment a ride to realize the comfort of simply being by your side.

•five weeks I spent dreaming of all we were, our wedding surrounded by friends and family, under that outskirts tree, the distance of us so close your perfume strawberry, your lips cherry and soft, lost time.

[blue-prosperous]

planet by Catherine Pierce

[blue-prosperous]

Conceptual errors:

I’m ironically illiterate for a poet

I mean i can read just can’t show it

Or focus the words dance like scribbles

As i doodle scribbles along the inside lines

Of notebook pages pages of lines

Fine lines lined up i write scribbled words

I make them dance uniquely for you

Like others trip and stumble for me

The ones I can barely read

I read and write scribbles for me

I can’t read the scribbles of a article

or understand the use of articles

Instead I under-over-use commas and periods

To create a feeling of uneasinesses

but in reality I just can’t write or read

Unless I write dancing words

Of scribbles that make sense to me