Inside The Hearts' Walls

And here I am again, late with my post.
If we were in pre revolution France, my head would be gone by now (and so would my penchant for beautiful shoes).
But, I promise I will get better!

Change of topic!

Thanksgiving is this Thursday!
Time to joyously eat pie, be with friends and families and be thankfull for all that you have, no matter how little it could be.
And thats our prompt for this week. Thankfulness.
And with our prompt, comes a poem.
Enjoy!

Simply Lit
by Malena Morling

Often toward evening,
after another day, after
another year of days,
in the half dark on the way home
I stop at the food store
and waiting in line I begin
to wonder about people—I wonder
if they also wonder about how
strange it is that we
are here on the earth.
And how in order to live
we all must sleep.
And how we have beds for this
(unless we are without)
and entire rooms where we go
at the end of the day to collapse.
And I think how even the most
lively people are desolate
when they are alone
because they too must sleep
and sooner or later die.
We are always looking to acquire
more food for more great meals.
We have to have great meals.
Isn't it enough to be a person buying
a carton of milk? A simple
package of butter and a loaf
of whole wheat bread?
Isn't it enough to stand here
while the sweet middle-aged cashier
rings up the purchases?
I look outside,
but I can't see much out there
because now it is dark except
for a single vermilion neon sign
floating above the gas station
like a miniature temple simply lit
against the night.

Hello all!
We are now in the days of darkness approaching at 5:30 PM.
Christmas music is playing in stores,
Leaves are turning into mulch on pavement,
And turkeys are running scared. (poor turkeys!)

Poetry club is up and flourishing and always welcoming people into its warm, coffee shop covered arms.
And on that note,
This weeks prompt is hiding.
and it even comes with a poem!


November Rain
by Linda Pastan
How separate we are
under our black umbrellas—dark
planets in our own small orbits,

hiding from this wet assault
of weather as if water
would violate the skin,

as if these raised silk canopies
could protect us
from whatever is coming next—

December with its white
enamel surfaces; the numbing
silences of winter.

From above we must look
like a family of bats—
ribbed wings spread

against the rain,
swooping towards any
makeshift shelter.


Remember! Poetry club is every Tuesday from 3-4 in the Hotshot cafe! Come and bless us with your presence.

Hello everyone! These last few weeks I had been so on top of the blog, and then this week it didn't even come into my head as a thought. I hate when that happens.
Well, anyways, the poetry club has been flourishing! We seem to have a new person every week and we definitely have no shortage of talent.
Our prompt for this week is pretending.
And with pretending, a poem emerges;

Portraits
By Mark Irwin

Mother came to visit today. We
Hadn't seen each other in years. Why didn't
You call? I asked. Your windows are filthy, she said. I know,
I know. It's from the dust and rain. She stood outside.
I stood in, and we cleaned each one that way, staring into eachother's eyes,
Rubbing the white towel over our faces, rubbing
Away hours, years. This is what it was like
When you were inside me, she said. What? I asked,
Though I understood. Afterward, indoors, she smelled like snow
Melting. Holding hands we stood by the picture window,
Gazing into the December sun, watching the pines in flame.

"Only one guy and
only one fly trying to
make the guest room do" -Issa

Two hands clap and
two wings flap, sounding out
for a lout

Three minutes pass and
three grams mass landing on
a finger, tension gone

Four centimeter nest and
four seconds rest before flight
once again that night
-Eliot Kurfman