We, The Witnesses

I’m fine without it
but grew green-faced again,
a cavernous hollow,
needed the euphoria
which came with words
echoing through trees.

You’d given me a reprieve,
so mild and common,
and now I’ve returned to
making marginalia, account for
(what do I call this)
nameless, wispy things.

All the storying that goes on,
in whatever form it took,
piling up as posts, appearing
as praise, or grievance,
pouring with light every
time you looked.

Prompt:

So I took my mind off poetry for a bit. It’s like a reprieve. The pressure’s off, isn’t it, till it’s back on. Back on? Who says? What gives this inner compulsion to write fiction? What gives, you tell me. Is it like having to say what you’re thinking or feeling, in a story form? Check out this quote: “After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.” ― Philip Pullman. Think about storying in your poem.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s