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245

We speak with empty words,
in rare moments of silence.
Endless is our dance,
as we 
feed our muted souls.
Laying claim to knowledge,
we blindly witness the decay.
As,
with grace,
Lady Justice looks away.

That is the root of madness,
in this inauspicious peace.
So brief our focus,
as we gorge, on bended knees.
Drowning in erotics,
while we stitch with threads of clay.
And,
with grace,
Lady Justice looks away.

This is for NaPoWriMo 2016, Day 3 with the Wordle 245 prompt from the Sunday Whirl. I was really hoping to get it down to 55 words for The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads‘ prompt as well, but once I got to the end and felt the cadence was right, I couldn’t get myself to cut… I haven’t done a wordle in a very long time, but it was just as much fun as I remembered. Hope you enjoyed!

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Image from Sunday Whirl, Wordle 164

stomping, back, sizzle, numbers, existence, hello, power, place, single, right, language, muffled

Heading back to my old stomping grounds
take a left at Nostalgia Square
to a time when I had the power, the right,
and took my place without a care.

On a walk down long ago Memory Lane,
counting numbers of friends I have lost
I hear muffled music, feel sizzling sun,
trace an existence I miss so oft.

A quick detour up Puberty Street
not a place I want to relive
say hello to the kids of the neighbourhood
who every single slight would forgive.

In any language, those carefree days
of sunshine, play and fun
are the stomping grounds I’ll remember most
green grass, blue sky, warm sun.

My offer for The Sunday Whirl and today’s Wordle 164 is a sunny walk down Memory Lane.

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Wordle 11 from Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie

Grace, Synthesis, Henna, Fetid, Pagan, Diffuse, Scribble, Fraught, Paraphernalia, Cotton, Shambolic, Decanter

The air is fetid with shambolic thoughts
as we pray for grace for the havoc we wrought.
Under cotton-ball clouds, a decanter is raised –
the bombs are diffused in a radiation haze.
A pagan synthesis, we bargain with Gods
and blood is our currency in big fat wads.
Hands painted with henna, our new camouflage,
free-thinking is fraught with threats of sabotage.
Too deep is the darkness into which we have sunk
we have to un-think every thought that we’ve thunk.
Now smile for the camera and scribble of love
hail that peace paraphernalia – a blinding white dove!

For Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie, and Wordle #11

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Wordle #9 from Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie

 

descent, window, lesion, parchment, splinter, grapple, rosary, minutiae, coarse, vinegar, pitiless, shun

My parchment bleeds as I write of you
and your rosary
that would always guide you through
every trouble you’d meet!
You’d let the sunshine in
through a window clear
onto coarse denim jeans.
You who taught me fear.
On you who taught me that
I was a hell-bound boy
who said that my descent
would start in every joy.
And your vinegar washed,
no it bleached, my mind
until a lesion-ed scar
was all it left behind.
I still grapple with sin
almost every day!
Owe so much to you
and your pitiless ways.
That splinter in my heart
that just won’t come out
because I always shun
all that you were about.
Your endless nagging
and relentless brow-beating
over every little minutiae’s tasks
I feel is finally retreating
back to all those years in the past.

Concocted for Wordle #9 over at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie where you can always find wonderful daily prompts to inspire.

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Wordle #8 from Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie

Artist, supernal, moss, slippery, ecstasy, lake, palliative, perplexing, wren, drench, graphic, agitate

When I tumble into the lake of creativity,
from the perilous, slippery moss on its shores,
it always instills a feeling of ecstasy,
to create is to be something more.

My muse awakens, the supernal being,
and fills me with so many graphic words.
She whispers ‘You’re an artist, you make words sing,
it’s your destiny to not go unheard’.

In the lake of creativity you do not have a choice:
you must swim or go under, all drenched.
I cannot sleep, with her agitated voice
as it echoes inside my head.

She is both overwhelming and perplexing, my muse
I must write just to palliate the pain!
To find relief, find succor, from internal abuse
I write again and again and again.

When the mania lifts, like a herd wrens,
that flap their wings and take to the skies,
the muse leans over, says ‘I’ll see you again’
and lifts me out of the lake as I die. 

I have been diagnosed with the milder form of  bipolar disease (or manic-depression if you prefer) called bipolar II, but I do recognize that some of my prolific creativity coincides with periods of hypomania (a less intense form of mania). My experience of my muse is therefore not quite as extreme as what I’ve described above.  

Wordle #8, providing the above words, comes from Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie and I really think you should go see all the wonderful and daily prompts on offer there.

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