Mango Resistance: A poem from a prompt (10 Minute Sprint)

I’m not as still as you want me to be

Supposedly, I have rage underneath

Come closer,

the surface glides but the shades and the tones they skip

like rocks over the water and dirt cycling into the blades of green

I’m not as smooth as you’d like to believe

lopsided beating heart racing to burst at the gleams

and everybody belongs to the lines and

object to the grooves and oh, so disapprove of my

piously round and

unabashedly scandalous

shaped obstination

curvature, foul and indentured

soulful as fruit on a useful, yet lifeless plank.

j

even Apollo was afraid of the dark sometimes.

Apollo, you froze

as the sunlight of your eyes grew cold

the lyre, smashed across these cobblestone streets of Epidaurus

where you sought sanctuary

when the flowing melodies ceased as water in hard frost, unlike before

the day you remembered this place yielded no crops

in refuge of quiet, inquisitive starlight as you looked up

for once in your life.

Do you mend the sores of your intuition?

Your moral infection, rampant, plaguing the shoe less mendicant

when the bow became the archway to your temple of wax

and the arrow you left behind, atop the mangled olive tree

the one the muses grew bored of pursuing, on your behalf

before you knew if you had anything to give to your son

before you knew of Daphne, and how it would feel to watch her leaves depart her person.

And I recite what I see for when I close my eyes I see fear, instead of the tomorrows hidden in your eyelids.

The city waited for you to rise

and I also waited to see if you could heal yourself, you shining oracle:

be fearless again.

Procedure (Break Time Poetry)

In the valley of fluorescence
a narrowing conch
hiding a benevolence
underneath and above and outside of the things that limbed creatures should be doing
outside of myself,
looking down as a figure that knows not how to fly, mostly hover;
translucent
and afraid of what will happen
when the wind picks up
and retrieves
the rubbish
all around.
“Is this my place? Up here,
down below? A few steps to the left, or the right?
Is there policy for this direction forthwith?” No procedure for this.
And in my bedhead,
translucent as well, and loud to the touch,
these fingers,
these broken pointers
can no longer heal or cause
a damn thing.

j