The Poem Unwritten

open-blank-notebook-black-amp-white

Image by Emilie Vecera on Public Domain Pictures

 

The poem unwritten is
The voice unheard,
The song unsung,
The dancer unmoving.

The poem unwritten is
The mountain unclimbed,
The thread unpulled,
The path unexplored.

The poem unwritten is
The tear unshed,
The fever untreated,
The air unbreathed.

 

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Attempting to catch up with missed days of NaPoWriMo and finding inspiration in my own unwritten poems.

 

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School Day

Hallway_of_school

By ChadPerez49 [CC BY-SA 4.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)%5D, from Wikimedia Commons

Pulling into the not quite empty parking lot remind me that I am not enough of a morning person to be the first to arrive. Dimly lit buildings sit in U formation around the silent courtyard, anticipating the coming storm. The only brightly lit space, a hub of early morning activity, beckons me to check in. Rows upon rows of wooden cubby holes – some empty, some overflowing – line the central wall, flanked by a podium where I scribble initials on the sign-in sheet. With not-yet-awake indifference, I snag the stack of unnecessary memos that I assume should have been emailed (especially since we are in a paper rationing budget crisis) and wander back outside and through the courtyard to the still mostly dark 400 building. An eerie silence fills the hallway as I enter the building and unlock my door, mindlessly, routinely flipping on the florescent lights. One by one, I skim the memos, confirming my assertion that most are unnecessary wastes of paper, when a note on a “from the desk of” memo pad escapes to the floor. Retrieving it, I sigh at the realization that I must back track to the office before I can start tackling the never-ending pile of work to be graded. As I step back out into the hallway, I am startled by the loud ringing of the first bell indicating the first wave is beginning. Bus riders and the cafeteria breakfast eaters flood onto campus from opposite directions, quickly clogging the sidewalks and hallways. Youthful chatter fills the air, punctuated by metal lockers slamming shut. I merge into the slipstream of teenagers walking by and make my way back to the main office.

Principal’s office
Summons is rarely good news
Even for teachers.

 

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My day 12 poem was inspired by the prompt at NaPoWriMo where we were challenged to take on the haibun form. This was a new form for me and if you’ve read much of my poetry, you know how I love a good form challenge! I’ve also missed a couple of days, but hopefully I’m back on track to finish the month strong. 

The Loneliness of Pretty

 

Come With Me

Image by John F. Ashton-Keller

Beauty’s only skin deep they say,
So peel off my skin.
If your right hand offends you then cut it off.
Remove me from you.

You who made me a part of you
Then turned your back on me
You who professed forever
Then dwindled to sometimes
Then occasionally
Then rarely
Now never.

You curse me
Blame me.
Fine
I remember
when you said
“Mine.”

Selfishly, then, you’d cling to me
In the white hot embers of afterglow.
Selfishly, now, you blame me for seeking
What you promised to give but forgot.

Was the promise forgotten?
Or was it only me?

You were my everything –
My present and my future.
I depended on you.
I wanted you.
I needed you.

Though we were together, I found myself alone.
Aching and desperate to be needed again –
To be important again,
To mean something to someone again.

Opportunity merely knocked.
I hesitated at first,
wanting you to stop my outstretched hand,
to take it into your own and claim me once again.

The hand that took mine was not yours,
But the hand of Opportunity.

I only wish you’d have knocked first.

 

This one is from my archives. Battling through a fibro flare today, but wanted to share something for NaPoWriMo. 

Funeral “Home”

statue-of-angel-face-14738770877oT

Image by George Hodan on Public Domain Pictures

 

There has to be a better way
To mourn the dead.

The family is already hurting,
Yet they’re expected to stand for hours
While friends and strangers
Make their way through a queue
(whose length varies with the age and popularity of the deceased)
Just to shake hands and offer
Words that will be of little comfort –

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“He was a good man.”

“She will be missed.”

All at a place called a funeral “home”.

A smattering of sofas and chairs, hideous wallpaper, patterned rugs,

Hardly qualify to be called “home”.

 

Today on the NaPoWriMo blog, the prompt suggested playing with line length. Why this ended up being my topic … well, your guess is as good as mine!