Bitlets 211I think she's on to that part of me,
breaking a branch, half of a salvage
and I didn't even have a chance
to say that I was a damaged package.
Bitlets 210Your name isn't in my vocabulary.
Your name is a part of my alphabet,
next to 'i' and far from 'y not.'
Bitlets 208He spoke in stone about
the relationship being
better than the average
and she fired back in neon
about how this was not
giving them an advantage.
Been Gone DoubtingI've been gone doubting myself,
a pullover hoodie male conversing
the palaver between cranky cadavers,
a cadence between dance partners.
"I'm asexual. But I don't know."
Between sex partners, the rhythm
of guilty feet is in their legwork;
the degeneration of poetry into sex,
and the reluctance to acknowledge
more penetration of the opposite sex
with a doubt I've been gone avoiding.
I've been gone doubting myself
and discounting sexual endeavors
as encounters between dancers.
Instead, I'll go finding.
Dead FriendI fell asleep with both eyes open
under a cloth of slothful calm
after I stripped out of my own skin.
I sought asylum with salmon in slalom
of grizzlies' grip. I am a volcanic
yawn short of insomnal salaam.
When I preyed on neighborly original sin
in networked whorls of grey neural lobes,
I fell asleep with both eyes open
to dreams mirrored on spinal columns
and woke to the chorus of a ringtone hymn.
Fighting silence with salmon in slalom,
I cradled the phone like a totem,
hid it like a corpse under a cushion
serially stripped of its own skin.
The phone call was from a mom
infantizing a son; to countertop it
I yawn short of insomnal salaam.
But I am pretty, pretty angry, angry broken,
broken awake from a phone contact harem
before I fall asleep with both eyes open
Bitlets 206Solipsistic cynic splitting statistics
systemically peddles spit, sadistically
panhandled and dealt with in sprint.
Storm CallSeasong carries
over water, away
Sailing the wind
To the end of day
High fidelity, hearken
A weather eye
When autumn skies
Clouds scatter and flee
Before taking flight
Between here and away
The moment stretching
The pause between breaths
The calm that comes before the storm...
Ocean already tugs at the lifelines.
A whisper of cooler Atlantean air
The storm comes
From the breath of susurration
To the thundering wave's drums
Inexorably now, it comes.
Caught up by horizon storms
The shore beneath you disappears
The sea provides fair warning.
And from the savage night —
Full-throated furies howl and rage —
High and dry by morning.
Cast up by the sea
Strange creatures and mysteries
Leave beachcombers to wonder
But what the sea provides
The storm-surge yie
Painting the SkyMother Nature:
Effortless in her grace,
Flawless in her beauty,
The world a canvas,
With her palate of infinite color,
Any method or tool at her disposal.
She is the master of pieces,
The composer of ancient lyric,
The writer of every story,
The artisan of all trades.
She paints the heavens at dawn
With hues of violet, orange and rose,
And strains the clouds on the horizon.
The rising sun’s light reflecting off their surfaces,
Cascading vibrance onto the weary eyes
Of those in slumber, and those awoken long before.
She calls the birds to sing the melodies
Known to them by heart,
And as they face the new morning,
They bravely sing the intricate verse,
A language all their own,
But one that all are blessed to hear.
She takes her brush and streaks it across the clouds,
And carefully flicking the moisture down to earth
She adorns all things with the finest crystalline water,
Dew covering the grasses,
The weaving of spiders,
The flowers untouched by crude hands.
She gently blows a sin
rain angellie down on the smooth footpath
it has been warmed by the sun for
lie down and feel the heat against
your back and the ants that begin
to crawl through your dry hair
and read the sky
spread out your arms on the footpath and
into the roiling black heavens
just wait there, wait until they
open upon you
blotting circles pattern around you until the sky and the path are painted the same
but for a smiling rain angel where you lie
sheltering beneath you
and that strong, heady scent of petrichor that surrounds you
everything becomes wet
carbon, concrete, chlorophyll
the tickling ants run for shelter and you
let this all-consuming deluge wash you away
forget the nuances of a crowded, bustling life
money, jobs, responsibilities
for just a few minutes while the warmth fades
you don't need to be afraid
you are a child of the earth
and free your mind
when you are done and drenched
NaiadI am of the tall kelp and hard cliffs made
I do not bow, I do not break
I am coldness, I am hunger
No one is older, no one is younger
My soul is pure yet deep as the lake
Into which Bedivere returned the magic blade.
If you find me hiding in the reed
Do not be frightened by my blue-grey face
Men who come wish to cover me in dresses
But I’m fine, my dignity saved by my black tresses
Women may leave an offering of delicate lace
Or gold coins, as if my hunger is one of greed.
But don’t come too close to the water brink
I am the guardian of all those who sleep
Eternally in seas dark and rivers wild
I embrace every spurned lover and unwanted child
And drag them down, for my sisters to keep
Close to their hearts, their blood to drink.
YieldAutumn cloaks a darkling soul
In half-truths of vermillion
Crimson, scarlet, amber, gold
Beneath a blue pavilion
Autumn hides its old grey bones
In cupboards filled with snail shells
Skeins of birds and garden stones
Where every half-lit secret dwells
Autumn’s guise is gossamer
Thistledown in parachutes
Rushing waters’ dulcimer
And reed-song veil its bitter fruits
Autumn’s spirit is occult
It offers balmy days’ exult
Then turns to storm, perfidious
Autumn’s altar smells of rain
Leaf-mold, woodsmoke, rot and rust
I yield to darkness in the vein
And sacrifice content and trust
each autumn is another springautumns where every leaf is
a fumbling wildflower and
every deep sunset where colours bleed
against the horizon,
pools of melted copper and
shreds of cloud like glittering morning
i hope you realise how each
autumn is another spring
three blackbirds fly across painted skies,
tearing up the dust i
can still taste the peppermint the sugar
hills and every midnight, dandelions they
dance in my chalice of
chipped china coffee mugs.
slept, bluebells, baby crocus
buds swept a
peek round my doorway and
I didn't prepare for a drenched bouquet of
silk netted soaked morning lights on
my doorstep when
i'm still dreaming of circled
street-lamp hues as soft as whispers that
hang high above the
dew drops in the air
-come take me there.
Bitlets are about quantity, not quality. Free-write at least one a day about what is on your mind, going on around you, or the state of your life. Ignore the urge to edit; it's not about being profound on purpose, it's about stumbling on it by accident.
About this BitletThis originally said copper instead of iron. My elementary science teacher would not be proud.