An excerpt from Rust, Gore, and the junkyard Zombie :
Jimbo actually tried to bite him. Dad’s reflexes have never dulled in the twenty years since he left the military. He was always a more physical person, it was one of his more annoying personality traits. His exercise routine was nearly a religious thing. He jogged five miles every morning, and did other muscle builders as well. He claimed it was how he kept his body in shape. I was so stunned that all I could do was stare.
Dad dodged away and started cussing. “Jimbo, you damn fool! What the Hell is wrong with you? “ Jimbo only groaned, and followed Dad. Again, Jimbo lunged and tried to bite.
“Have you been in my good stash again? You know that you have no tolerance for the booze! Get your drunk ass up to the couch to sober up! And how did you get so damn bloodied up boy?”
Dad clocked him, as Jimbo tried yet another time to bite him. Not the first time Dad sent him flying, but this time something was different. Dad knew it too. A look of deadly steel settled in his eyes.
“Jimbo, I am done playing with you. This is the last warning. Back off!” Dad pulled out his Colt Desert Eagle, and grimaced as if he really did not want to use it. To be honest, he probably didn’t. He rarely did. “Pull your head out your ass boy!”
Dad snarled as he backed away, but Jimbo didn’t seem to hear him. Dad aimed for the knee. The shot rang loudly, ringing painfully across the entire garage.
Writing
Not knowing what to say,
Not knowing what to write.
It has never been the issue.
Having too much to pour out,
That endless train of musing,
It goes on a journey
From too much truth to heartache.
Putting pen to paper is like,
A vacuum to the heart.
In the end there’s a dirty bag of poetry,
And a soul drained of all emotions.
© Abirami
Written yesterday
©2017
by Patricia Harris
Inspiration,
A fickle beast.
Today a river flowing,
Tomorrow a dry gulch again.
The muse delighted
Ideas a plenty,
While art completed
Few indeed.
Feast, young poet,
Writer, or artist.
While the muse is generous,
Lest your time of
Creativity become too lean.
Truth. And faith is often a struggle.
Inspiration monsters
Well I have been extra prolific this year with poetry. I just published my third volume for the year. That was three times what I have managed before. So I was not expecting to do much else poetry wise this year. I have two children’s stories I want to finish, a novel half written(as Serena), a novella that needs more(again Serena) and two stories due to an anthology I am doing by March. So I was sitting down to work on Serena’s Rust, Gore, and the Junkyard Zombie.
I found myself distracted…and so to clear my mind I started to write out my thoughts. A mental cleansing if you will. Next thing I knew I have seven poems for my next volume. I don’t have any idea of why I have been this inspired, but I am not going to complain.
Go peek at my author page. I have added Literary Drops already. There are other great volumes available too. It seems that my muse has decided to be kind, so I will be releasing more soon. Tomorrow, when I type the new ones in, I will be sure to post at least one for y’all to enjoy.
And in case you are curious about Serena, she has an Author page as well. Currently it only has a single novella, but keep your eyes out for that to change.
Word Jazz
By Patricia Harris ©2017
Word Jazz
Not structured
Poetic improv
Pieced together
Thoughts, emotions,
Smiles and tears.
Word song,
Spilled soul
To paper
Spilled mind
To sight.
Eclectic,
And smooth.
Energetic,
Makes the heart move.
Tribe
Just when I felt my most alone,
Lost from my soul, unknown,
That is when discovery came.
Teaching me,
Learning how to lean in,
Learning to accept love
Growing, evolving.
Welcoming the arms
Of unconditional
Support wrapping
Self doubt,
Carrying the dream
Carrying the need
To be known.
Each one a star,
Shining brightly in
The darkness of the night
Of a soul lost and forlorn.
Stretching across the chasm
Of eternity.
Poetry, rules and rebellion
I have a confession…writing poetry with certain constraints has always made me antsy. I have felt like I was somehow not good enough to write following the rules. So, I have written copious amounts of free verse…avoiding the structure of any fotms.
Then, as I grew as a writer and a poet, I found myself saying I don’t write that way too often. Well why the Hell not? Am I a Poet? Or do I just pretend I am?
So, when presented with a form/structure poem idea, I start by looking up the rules. For me, this is my go to site.
Believe me, I feel like a high school student again. In high school I knew the rules and felt my style was better as free verse. I think that if anyone tried to tell me that I needed to follow rules with my poetry I even would blow it off with poetic license.
The rebel nature of free verse still appeals. I will likely never be the next Haiku or Sonnet genius. Poetry speaks from the heart, and mine is often chaotic and unstructured. The meaning remains though.
So, just out of curiousity, what is your favorite types of poetry? Why?
Rain
By Patricia Harris ©2017
Even perfect days
can end in rain,
Soft mists that barely cover
Or wrenching downpours
That wash away
The emotional bubble.
Dancing in the wet,
Playing with the moment
Much as a child unsupervised.
Pretending that all
Our troubles are forgot,
Yes, even a perfect day
Can end in rain.
Rain, though it symbolizes
Dreary, dark moments
Can bring a pause,
A simple time to let go,
To play as the clocks hands
Move across the tic tocking
Of adulthood.
Release,
Allowing joy to wash off
Stress, pain, tension,
And then to leave us
In a forgotten moment
In the lost minutes of
Childhoods hour.
Pattimouse 