Sep 20
poem 0 comments challenge: Hey!
J. Scott's picture

More of a Lark than a Dove

She is a
hope-spot,
bright with meaning.
Beyond a tool
to serve others,
beyond a lost child
to be rescued
or a maiden fair
to strive for,
she exists for herself.
She survives
the enclosing
darkness
of a childhood 
in servatude,
unloved,
beaten and ignored.
There is no
weakness
in her joy,
her growth,
her luminescent love.
There is no resignation
or timidness
in her soul.
She is a fighter
whose fight has been
maligned by
centuries of sexism.
She is a pillar
of strength,
a ray of inspiration
working
to pull others
out of the
desolate night
she once escaped.
She is the dream
of a better tomorrow
and the promise
that someday
this will all heal.
Sep 18
J. Scott's picture

Unpopular Opinion

I have been
(unsurprisingly)
to both woods and sea

I have revelled
in their endless
Ageless
W o n d e r,

their depths
and the potent cocktail ㅡ
fear and belonging ㅡ
they fill one with

I have spent
warm fall afternoons
and chill summer mornings
within the Embrace
of Nature

held close
by her Grace
and Power
in a trance
of the world

I hold no religion
but for that of her:
of the power of Nature

It is
therefore
with this authority
that I say

(with as great confidence
as I believe one can hold
for any particular idea):

Robert Frost
was full of shit

Robert Frost
while acquainted, perhaps,
with the night,
Knew nothing
of the sea
of the wood

He has the
Basest
Crudest
understanding of her

His words
Sep 14
J. Scott's picture

Allow Me the End I Aim to Deserve

Romanticise me
when I am gone.
Say I was special
and that I mattered.
Say I did something,
or changed something,
that I made some impact
and left the world marked.
Say that my absence will be felt.
And for the love of god,
above all,
Remember I was radical.
Remember that I was controversial.
Do not cut away my edges
and smooth my creases.
Allow me to embrace death
as I lived, in grime
and blood.

 
Sep 14
J. Scott's picture

Girl on the Scrim

My anger is too
slithering
to write out
right now.
It’s ill-defined,
with blurred edges,
just vague shapes
against a light
in the distance.
Perhaps at the root
there is some clear
understandable
mass,
but I am too far away,
too blurred, indistinct,
the light too indelicate
and the fabric wrinkles,
pulled taught
with staples and screws,
like some monster
long dead
yet still here

 
Sep 11
J. Scott's picture

Matchstickfigure

“Don’t light yourself
on fire to keep
someone else warm”
implies that I am
lighting this fire
for another,
to help them
at my own expense.
No,
this fire
is for me.
They may not have it.
But I will not
cease burning either,
I will not put out
the reckless flames
that engulf my soul
and frame my body.
I burn only
for myself.
 
Sep 11
J. Scott's picture

Small Victories, I Suppose

Sep 11
J. Scott's picture

Revelations

I lie on the floor
above the stairs
watching the stillness
of my bedroom door,
the sturdy door frame,
it’s white paint
chipped
and my eyes
seek some
spot of interest,
my brain, patterns
and settle upon
a three line figure
something like
the letter “J”
and I am stricken
by the realisation
that my room
knows me
 
Sep 11
J. Scott's picture

FEAR

The lighting fixture in the bathroom
broke
and now the bulb sits
naked.
It radiates a sort of
heat
that you notice when you enter.

As a child, I watched Poltergeist
or perhaps,
I tried to watch Poltergeist.
I stopped
after the scene where an investigator
enters the bathroom in the house
and begins to
Melt.
 
Sep 11
J. Scott's picture

G*ldm*n

I have learned to say names like expletives,
thrown out into the world with feigned ease
despite the thought behind each syllable.
Words, so powerful yet so casual, expected
each letter ringing pleasantly to the ear
regardless of their meaning when together.
A nearly electrifying fear behind them ㅡ
A forbidden word, to be carefully avoided
not to be mentioned in polite company,
indeed, the most rewarding word to say
or to hold in the mind like a secret,
treasure to carry, even when it cannot be shared.

 
Jun 13
J. Scott's picture

Minor Compulsion

I don’t know my mind.
I know me, but not her.
She is different that I.
She has bits of superstition
that she holds to
that I do not understand,
but since she is connected
to my nerves and muscles,
I reach down and pick up
screws or nails that lie there
on the floor, abandoned
because that is the thing
I must do. The thing
she requires of me.

 

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