I attended a monthly open mic session last week where we were tasked with writing a poem in a form that scared us for October's session (Halloween and all). Our MC was kind enough to send us info on various poetic forms, one fo which was abecedarian. I took a look, and said to myself, no way. Then, on Tuesday, another group of poets I joined on Twitter did a session on abecedarians, and extended a challenge to write one. Okay Universe, I can take a hint. Here's mine:
POEM: HOW I STARTED by Sheryl Singleton Lynch (09/27/22) Anyhow, I don’t tend to write long poems Because I started out stealing moments Closeted in my room Determined to give voice to Emotions I’d otherwise have to stuff with Food I’d snuck, being called Greedy when I was found out. Heavy with depression I would scrawl my feelings Just short of plumbing their depths Keeping secrets even from myself Like how much I missed you Ma, and how you used to be. No, we didn’t know the extent Of what you went through Perhaps because you talked around it Questions remained unanswered Resentments festered Stung with words and hands Tears were withheld Unacknowledged pain. Vicarious living through offspring Would not be my fate Xenophobic I wasn’t Yearning to broaden my horizons, Zealous in pursuit of freedom, I write.
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Mother
inspects my shoes my dress my hair to see if I am worthy to be seen by God. Midday --
Throwing shade Beneath the elm tree Dishing dirt Passing time Ignoring the shadows Growing larger In and around us As the day grows older. Sheryl Singleton Lynch At the end of the season, I went down to the shore
To watch the boats overcome the waves I reached for your hand, which eluded my grasp No salvation, no sign of life My hope anchored to dreams of love Sunk deep beyond any diver’s skill I was astounded by her skill Finding little crabs on the shore It seemed to be a work of love As she danced playfully with the waves Her name was written in the Book of Life Everything fell to her hand, no need to grasp There were many things I could not grasp Being young I lacked the skill With which to do battle with life I was adrift, far from shore Almost succumbing to the waves Until I learned to navigate the sea of love What is it they truly love The thing that they grasp Tightly as they travel the world making waves Wielding power requires extraordinary skill No one to rely on, to shore Up a cardboard cut-out life I want, demand a real life That’s different from romantic love I travel down to the shore To release illusion from my grasp I never did have that skill Happily, I watch it sink beneath the waves I see him and he waves Cheerfully heading off to live his life He seems to have more skill With the madness called love All the nuances he can grasp Without ever leaving the shore I was consumed by waves of love Life forever slides from my grasp My skill fades, sinking beneath the waves Sheryl Singleton Lynch The link below is to a project I recently participated in called Synergy. My response was a photo essay titled "Queens Reflections" consisting of several short poems and photos I took over the summer. For those of you who are writers/photographers, the project is looking for more contributors. You can email me for the contact info @[email protected]
thewombwellrainbow.com/2022/09/12/new-feature-synergy-calling-all-writers-who-are-photographers-i-will-feature-your-work-photos-and-writing-individually-on-the-wombwell-rainbow-a-special-feature-for-you-alone-please-dm-message-me-8/ The doctor says
You need to walk So I coax you Into the park And slow my pace Waiting for the sugar And the sadness To drain out of you. The summer air clings -- Already this city girl Longs for air conditioning I check myself With memories of a childhood bedroom fan -- You can do this. We trudge along the muddy trail There was a downpour yesterday Up the little hill into the woods And we mutter about The forest primeval And the Indigenous folk of long ago Their presence on the land still profoundly felt. We walk farther And your mood lifts As does the birdsong Making you fit company As we head back to the car. Dozing in the summer morning's heat
Sliding in and out of sleep As I wait for you to awaken I have waited for years Mornings and nights For you to see me Until it dawned on me We each needed to gaze upon ourselves. The Book of Love is first a mirror That evil queen Had only to accept Rather than question her reflection And she would have had no need for poisoned apples Could've left that girl alone. November 3, 1992 (November 3, 2020): It’s the day after the election, and Clinton (Biden) has won. I feel relieved, as if the end of a long siege has come. At the same time, I am aware of the distance between myself and most others. I feel a strong sense of alienation, despite Clinton’s (Biden’s) call for unity. I’m angry with the rest of America. I’m angry that they voted Ronald Regan and George Bush (Donald Trump) into office in the first place, then acted shocked and surprised that things weren’t working out for the average person. Why didn’t they see the discrepancies between these men’s backgrounds and what was coming out of their mouths? It annoys me that people don’t think, and then sit and moan about their choices later. I know I am responsible for choosing to have my son, choosing to marry my husband, for choosing to be a writer. So, there’s a limited amount of complaining I feel I can do in public. I save my gripe sessions for my journal. I do feel quite different from most of the people I meet. For a long time, I tried to fit into the mainstream, but I’ve finally come to realize that I don’t want to, and that I can’t, no matter how much I might have wanted to.
When I was in my twenties, I used to believe there was a golden future ahead of me. I would have a high-paying job, a nice house, a husband, and one or two children. Now I am almost forty (seventy) and I have been through my fair share of battles as part of a couple and as an individual. Our lives together have had scars (healing). My son is autistic and even the process of getting help for him has its stresses. Life’s good, and most of the time it’s hard. And these past few years it often hasn’t been pretty, But for some strange reason I’m comfortable with not perfect. My life seems to make more sense now. When I worked at one company, I kept a picture of The Magician at my desk. The picture was from Thea’s Tarot, so The Magician is a woman. The figure has a split face, one half scarred – a price, I suppose, one must pay for the freedom to exercise the Will. I know that I am that woman, and that I have my scars. With freedom (liberation), there’s a certain isolation. I want to be less bothered by people. I want to move somewhere more secluded; I don’t want as many people in my life. I look at my neighbors and see they don’t understand me and my family from the questions they ask and the remarks they make. We are freaks and if the choice is between being a freak and being like them, I’ll choose my freaky self. I’d rather be aware of what’s going on around me than anesthetized. I don’t think I hate them; it's more that they frustrate me because they don’t seem to try, don’t seem to question. Or I suspect that they’re not being fully honest with themselves. I’m not so complacent about authority; I’ve never had much until recently, and I’ve witnessed the misuse of it often. I know how to misuse it, too, and what I’d prefer to do is find some people who weren’t afraid of my strength because they would be strong themselves. I’m tired of men who are afraid and insecure and women who are afraid and insecure. I’m tried of being the first person in a room to take a risk. I’m tired of being a bridge and walking point, even in a mixed-race group (especially in a mixed-race group). Most of all, I’m tired of being envied for it and feared for it. You assholes, this is the only life you get – if you don’t live it, who will? |