More Stone Nail Soup

Those Backstreets

it was like
those rambling narratives,
those adventures
in blackened air
with episodic backstreets
to corrupt the nights
nefariously unfolding
on to the streets.
those sooty accounts
of nightlife thick
as a potter’s hand –
so nocturnal picaresque
that enclaves turned
fluid as gender
on a spurious
moral map.

 

 

Written for Miz Quickly’s Stone Nail Soup. Text found and remixed from The Public Domain Review and image (cc-0) archive.org

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Found Prose Poetry: Writing in Gutters

ladiesInA_Boat

Prose: Writing in Gutters

I was a habitual reader during those nights, the ones when I couldn’t sleep, and I’d write notes in the gutter of each bound page of whatever book I read. In pencil, mostly. Pencilled thoughts I knew I’d forget the next day, and so, I began a diary of those first emigrated months that in hindsight were not the glaring personal loss that I felt so severely. It was late autumn, and there was a final hum of bees and chatter of birds before migration, and long handwritten letters home that never came to the point, and I learned to use a fork and table-knife as a European does, my mother winced in my dereliction of table manners, and train rides that I found unreasonably relaxing to the point of sleeping beyond the approach of my station, bonfires and smoke that scented the air and turned the sunset the colour of brass, and there were shirehorses with muddies legs, and church bells, and the milkman’s cart rattling me awake at daybreak, the postman whistling tunes that always ran too quickly across my ear. And each day was another diversion, and it seemed that time was a mental condition – one of those conditions you don’t mention, better to say nothing about. Time was ripe, and it was never an intrusion. And when all the white space on pages filled with my thoughts, I stopped. Like a last gasp before walking across hot white sand.

 

 
All text sourced and remixed from the TextClock which draws text from the Project Gutenberg ebooks: 2 May 2015 at 14:51

Moonbeams Dancing

Just for the fun of it, this is an example of Erasure Poetry. This is a page of text where the image is layered with only a selected few words showing through. The original text is from Victor Hugo’s collection of poems  “1888“. More examples of the fun at Found Poetry Review can be seen at my profile page The Found Poetry Review’s PoMoSco Challenge. Wander around and enjoy the fun.

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Give Me Back My Moon

coldMoon1

Give Me Back My Moon

When I was 18 you stripped the moon.
Abandoned it
like a cold pox,
an arroyo scar,

and there it hangs, magnificently.
Cast like desire rising.
Bleed me on rise.
Bleed me on set.

It’s an opal scrape of anger,
as if placed on dried
twigs and branches
might cast it alight.

Look at it, as I see it now,
not a young fool
freshly filled with
romance, rather

an unearthly bronzed folktale,
a wind-blown
bath that grows fools.
Give me back my moon.

 

for Margo’s “Cast” prompt and MLMM “Moon” image

 

 

Poem form: The Minute, except that I broke it a few times. Blame it on moon.