paintingher

paintingher
  

one cheek yellow oxidized, burnished down from her right handing eye.  the other, red, a late falling dusk afternoon wildflower remembering, a trace of legs striding through long limbered stalks.  a scent of water bent, a river moved, more pervasive than.  here’s what drew the bees into step danced story regard for her.  one last taste of flame, then sleep.

one eye, a reasoned logic fair, sympathetic, a sail’s salt thirst eager to be spent.  you’d give your breath for a glance.  even just one.  the other, beneath an arching sliver of greenish cheese fragrant moon, then just here, right aside where your fingers blush a yearning touch, begins from afar laying across a field of snow.  one star at the apex of unvarnished sight.

a nose that is the scent of earth and skin just after rain’s first fall.

lips, two rubies embedded over blacknight beneath wind sheared sheets.  hear how they render meaning into whispered words like a kiss.  please, once more!, takes flight more swift than thought.  no fence will sway depart, in other words.  we follow as a canyon does your voice.

hair as windswept nest to crowning thorns that all summits are.  then stir the sky, holding blind day and stalking night into a single radiance.

at root a jill-in-the-box, a song’s refrain is how she breathes and how we know her name.  our voices a circle of tone.  here’s the painted proof, pudding done right, the sails gone tight, a tillered hand.  a brush that fingers hold, no ordinary face, her gaze that answers snowy doubt.

vision gathers experience.

she, a perfect wife.

 
 

neil reid © november 2012

  
comments:
An abstract view of an abstract portrait. Answer to the question, what is it? A draft. (because I’m sick, and focus don’t wanna come out and play) Also and unexpectedly, a response to the prompt, write a love poem without using the word “love”. Didn’t think this poem was “that”, but realized in writing it, that it was. My attraction to the abstract I realized is more than simply a matter of taste, but expresses how I feel in relationship with the experience of being here.

  
Written for the We Write Poems prompt #131,  Unexpectedly, love. Read the prompt for more detail if you wish.

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do pockets dream of being inside out?

do pockets dream of being inside out?

  

what difference between me and the big deity?  show of hands.

whose tableside is most near the shakers of salt the shakers of pepper?

what quest to engage, untying the knots laces sometimes mistake for certainty?

will it be bananas or pizza this morning to eat?  calories no measure here!

a spoon or fork to stir the coffee?  how much sugar too?

do the laundry or is that shirt good for one more day?

which side of toast to butter first?  how’s gravity feel about that?

do we say who to love, and who not?  notice that may not be a prize.

what brand detergent or beaten with rocks?  no stone unturned.

step by step or taken leap?  how do we feel about broken bones?

do you choose?  buttons or chocolate beneath the sheets?

although nothing nothing is ever without consequence.

even not-knowing is flagrant choice.  the way water rolls uphill.

even disbelievers count.  ten fingers ten toes.  matter matters.

how do you handle sadness, doubt, water wandering feet?

then again navigation is turn left turn right turn left turn right, you see.

what if choice is merely thought?  describe your thirst.

 

neil reid © april 2012

 
comments:
Write a “spiritual” poem, so asks the prompt.

Seems a fair enough request and challenge too. Delicate subject? Some ways yes, yet again, rather core to the notions of why are we here – of course! Although not to preach. Maybe even more, be not all too obvious? Bread crumbs. (I like that.) Make a question, make a wondering. Worthy I’d think. Like fish in the sea?

Written for the We Write Poems prompt #102 Poem spirits!.
Responses of others are linked here.

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possibly this

prompt # 031
Love
by staff@wwp

Write a poem about love. Where and how you find it. Seems simple, huh? Well…

possibly this

maybe it’s in plain view at the boundary of
knowable possibility, seen from inside the flame.

maybe like your socks or like your chair, gravity
seems likewise unconditional, like fingers will do.

maybe like your bed while you sleep,
maybe like your favorite fork.

maybe it’s dark matter and we’re mere guests
in a greater blink of an eye with more to learn,

more than what we have added up.

maybe like dusty skin illuminated by summer talc.
maybe like clockwise romance that isn’t yet ripe.

if I say, maybe symbols aren’t enough.
maybe it’s not about me at all, nor even you.

maybe it is rain on your face, hat left home.
maybe it is a second chance stray cat in a box.

do I give you air to breath? any more than
fish make the great seas wet? and yet,

maybe I’m just a messenger at best.
maybe when I say I love you

it is like the mirror sky. inside each breath.

neil reid © december 2010

So, a poem about love that doesn’t use that word. Seems like right in a way to come in through the side door perhaps. Less obvious to see what is (or isn’t)! And like many, seems only a first page of more that might become. (Honestly, I have a pretty clear understanding, but how to say that in a poem… that is less obvious for me.) (I feel myself “participant”, rather than “owner” if you will.)

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Horse-sense

Who would guess, a second for the day no less.

Horse-sense

The hearts of horses, are they more than mine?
Surely must be brave on such tall spindled legs.

Bang them together till sparks come out?
Untested is an easy empty bowl.

How to resist the surging flood anyway?
The balls of no air, curves like muscled tides,
the hard spots underneath inside.

Rapids wear inside every hand that dares see
light and day. Sometimes you don’t come back.

I’m not as loving as a horse’s heart perhaps.
I stumble, I fail the creek, shy of summit bright.

Somedays, no doubts. Say it twice.

Small stones and me, we understand
pounding current, thrashing limbs.

Somedays, fear. Somedays, pain.

I don’t always love as waves insist.

Maybe another bowl of rice will make
the difference? And spoons with faces
making good horse-sense.

Here’s one truth.
I do nothing alone.

neil reid © june 2010

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Mother undone (napowrimo #11)

read write poem   napowrimo #11

prompt by Angie Werren   The thing you didn’t choose

RWP member Angie Werren invites us to write about the choice we didn’t make:

Everyday we make choices. Some are small: English breakfast or Lipton? the highway or back roads? Some are more significant: convertible or mini-van? farmhouse or condo?

Some choices lead us straight into the life we’re living, but for this poem, think about one of the things in your life you didn’t choose.

Be concrete. Pick an object — something tangible* — and write your poem directly to it, as if you were writing it a personal letter. Explain why you didn’t choose it. What could things have been like if you had? Talk about what your life has become without it. See where the “confession” takes you.

*As an alternative, dig a little deeper and write your poem to a person you left behind.

(Almost too volatile a prompt? Many many choices to make right here and now. I listened. This one finally came, spoke the loudest to me. So be it. And not coincident, a core part of near long gone reason why I write. Express, no matter what. Lines being rewritten even now, so likely for a future revision too, this will be. And thus it is, my first relationship.)

Mother undone

Dear Mother,

You’ve gone back to earth so I’m writing here

where just anyone can read can see, witness

a mother and son, writing from your very last home

sitting in the very bedroom where you slept

although I’ve painted the walls since then

                    *   dry

Things are getting rounder now, rough worn smooth

like water does like it was too shallow then, was that it?

A flood would have revealed more than dry autumn fled

                    *   leaves

Sitting next to me on that single bed I remember

the postcard you said to me (it wasn’t enough was it mom?)

But children hear everything (don’t they mom?)

And I bet you felt everything (didn’t you?) (I did and do)

                    *   where

Like they say, you did your best (I’m sure you did)

Your best to endure to provide to carry on years and years

but I would have liked the taste of your tears the frantic

unmoving underbelly of your pain (just to know out loud)

                    *   spring

Instead I ate the fear unspeakable (bad choice you see)

                    *   will

Like mother like son?  I suppose, that much that wasn’t

foolhardy fearhardy loving-instead-of-silent-not-breathing

And maybe (we won’t know) I could have taken the pain

That’s possible!

                    *   come

So I’m supposed to say what I didn’t choose, you know

and they’re all listening here, where the April rain comes

singing down on my roof and the garden I dug and planted

outside, listening like on that creaky old bed

And what would my life have been otherwise?

(They asked me mom)

                    *   to bear again

I didn’t choose to be less afraid than you

I didn’t choose to jump into your silence with better breath

I didn’t choose to be only me (and not partly shadow of you)

I could have comforted you (who knows what’s possible!)

Maybe you would have even been comforted, surprised

by what life can become unexpectedly

Could have been a mother and son

Instead, half a life, coming home, rendering some comfort

maybe you always wanted even if you couldn’t say

But home is home no matter the road

Love, your Son

Neil Reid © April 2010

(every fierce battle in your life is with a paper dragon)

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Curved space (napowrimo #08)

read write poem   napowrimo #08

prompt by Jill Crammond Wickham unusual love connections

Valentine’s Day is long past, says RWP member Jill Crammond Wickham, but we poets must keep up our reputation as the world’s foremost experts on writing about love!

Today, think of your current love, your current obsession or the one who got away. Now come up with five or more unusual metaphors for the object of your affection/obsession: wool scarf, cough drop, puddle, half-empty bottle of red wine… Choose your favorite of the bunch and write a poem celebrating (or trashing) your love.

(Small praise to Mr. Newton.)

Curved space

First Law of Motion

what begins as a trickle, gets magnified

Einstein was right, space is curved drawn inside

wells of gravity, more than simple random dumb luck

gravity like thighs, even if covered in jeans, rain-soaked

history, standing outside the theatre in a line

in the rain

rapturous stones in pocket

then glory! behold, binary momentum

Second Law of Motion

what’s on a roll is likely to fall off a log

celebrate gravity, celebrate no-choice (we say we do)

(we lie a lot), celebrate red pickup trucks with bench seats

celebrate jeans like fruit, what conceals no lies!

go ahead, debate with gravity!

or be the child of source, another, bright!

Third Law of Motion

things react equal in motion from whence they came

fumbling feet seek their seat

some darkling trail, you follow close, dare stumble

while better sight escapes

as trees pull earth into sky, as does gravity

know two yearning pairs of limbs

lost roots and falling either way as do we all

each in desire, love’s gravity

Neil Reid © April 2010

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Maybe fear (napowrimo #03)

read write poem   napowrimo #03

prompt by Joseph Harker scared yet?

Write about something that scares you. It could be tarantulas or your significant other cheating on you or an existential fear of the unknown so long as it unsettles you. Describe it in the most vivid language possible!

(Feeling a little “drafty” today, but here it is.)

Maybe fear

I’m afraid of worms, where they shouldn’t be.

I’m afraid of doors with a mind of their own.

I’m afraid of little dogs with little teeth.

Big dogs and me, we get along fine.

I’m not afraid of the dark, like night like stars

like still silence is, even in the skulking wind.

But my shadows sometimes, they worry me.

Like a hanging plant grows glowing eyes

and my lips call for mother from beneath

the sheets.

But don’t call too loud or those monsters hear!

Now I’m grown and my fears are more mature.

(But neither does mommy come any more!)

What scares me most is love!

What scares me most is when I don’t.

(Sssh… yes I lived like that for many years.)

To be empty inside is an aching scary life.

To be polite in the face of an empty life,

that’s even worse! Scary times ten!

Monsters would be easier.

No head, no heart, no arms! Me I mean.

Or to see to know to love then falter then lie

that’s even more bigger worse!

But ten fingers ten toes, that many times

bumpy scary frightening beautiful stunning

startling endearing I-don’t-know-how but I will,

and fear don’t flee, it evaporates.

Maybe fear is afraid of me.

Neil Reid © April 2010

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Untitled

U n t i t l e d

Untitled, that’s how all these poems begin

an empty old battered pot. (Says so

right here in soot and thumb.)

Will I ever love you rightly or enough,

lingers in thought past when eyes close to sleep.

And do you wonder who? I mean you.

I look for a word. I look for a life.

Some feathers fallen onto this path.

But not really only of mine. Something from

this spiral arching net, a thousand thousand

seaward fish. Some omen I might translate.

Make invisible into soup, some flavor

we’ll both understand. Some language

we both enunciate.

Is that your Spanish or Chinese tongue?

Or just an old English psalm? Honestly,

all more than easy-as-butter led-astray.

It comes to what a heart is willing to reveal,

willing to give away before some last breath

claims me back again.

I’m not afraid of going home,

but empty-handed, of that, yes.

It would just be a shame not to appreciate.

A shame to pretend I didn’t care, didn’t see

what’s feral turned friend.

And I do understand. Just as is a rose,

untitled or named. Like you.

Neil Reid © March 2010

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Writing you

read write prompt #113, the therapeutic cleanse – a spa for your writerly being
by mary biddinger

Getting stuck in a poetic writing rut? That’s the question, then response for this week’s prompt.

(Read the RWP prompt for full descriptive details.)
(Read other participants responses to this prompt.)

Read my second poem prompt response here.

Writing you

Maybe if I write one good poem

that will satisfy my life!

Maybe life don’t care about poetry.

Maybe, just me.

Maybe that’s what’s meant to be.

Here, take this spoon. Tell me.

Tell me when you think it’s full.

Take salt & pepper from the table.

Bare plate. Two chairs.

Your choice. Throw something over

your shoulder. Salt? Pepper? Me?

Keep the others for your pocket.

I’ll try to fit. Am I in your palm?

But it’s all up to you.

And all down to me.

Maybe if I love one woman, one friend,

with all heart unbleached, that will be

a life!

Maybe that’s what poem means?

Neil Reid © February 2010

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You’ll never read this

ReadWritePoem   read write prompt #95

The poetics of the mash-up, by celebrity poet matthew hittinger.  

Combine two poems, two voices, two somethings, was the prompt.

 

This poem came into being actually independent of the prompt, but just seemed to fit the bill in a way for me.  Combined here are the first and primary voice, then along with a second, those thoughts you’d not normally speak except to yourself, that more private part.  Sort of the way I feel a lot of thoughts co-exist.  What you are willing to say out loud, and what you aren’t.  Like that.  Only a first attempt at this sort of expression, maybe some rough, yet it did feel “more right”, more complete.

Read the prompt responses of others here.

 

Third  version.  It just wanted this.  I went along.  And one more time.

 

You’ll never read this

 

I don’t know you     I love you.

I want to heal you but healing won’t change

a thing of who you are, maybe just love

instead, but I don’t know you     I love you.

I must be blind in some way     I clearly see.

You are more naked more bare     your fears

all of you undressed into my eyes.

More than most would dare more than

proclaimed Eureka’s of tin-panned love

with something somewhere anywhere.

I’ve no right to think anything onto you.

You are translucent     you are afraid brilliantly.

You are a lover in the park     you are alone.

You keep touch inside of you     outside of you.

You fall back into a bed     you rise

like a Phoenix would     you keep it to yourself.

I love you     who wouldn’t love you.

I am jealous of nothing at all     everything.

Because I don’t love you     know you     and

even if I would and you probably wouldn’t

anyway.  But I don’t know     I don’t ask.

There’s a mask     I don’t know who’s wearing it.

I like your toes     leaves like fingers do.

A tenderness a passion a thirst     I would hold

them all     I would hold you closer.

Maybe you won’t even see these words.

But maybe in the moments the best of me

really what I want you to know it is not

my love but love’s self I would reveal     you

know and not me but you     I love you that much.

And I don’t even know your name

but I love you that much.

 

Neil Reid © October 2009

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