Here's mine for today's Escapril promt– does anyone have ideas on how to write poems as gifts?

my arms are flailing around, graspinig for everything

because I'm not sure which way I'm falling to be

honest I'm barely sure of anything anymore

but my trust in trust is not so eroded

so that I can still be 

confident that what I feel is real–

(my cliff ledge is in couch cushions and computer keys and headphone wires and pavement and

my plummet is in empty sunbeams and the infinity of the footsteps in the hallway and your laugh)  

I bury my hands in the texture of the world so that

my fingertips will stay grounded even if the rest of my body unspools into string and screams.

@Stardust, you're doing really well. You're such a good poet, omigosh. I love all your wordplay and metaphors and everything. 

I've kinda fallen way way behind on this ugh, idk if I'm going to give up or try to write enough poems before the end of the month to meet my word goal…. 

Here's mine for the fruit prompt! True story, by the way!

it was the best kind of summer day:

golden with sunshine and excitement and the promise of adventure and ice cream

and a wooden sign out the window promised a sale on FRESH PEACHES in all caps.

we yelled when we saw it, but we murmured when the bus stopped right next to it

a few murmur-filled moments passed

(like, why are we stopped? didn't you hear? are we there already? is he actually buying peaches? do you think we'll get some? did the bus break down? what's going on?)

before our counselor returned with a carton like the kind you get blueberries in,

only twice as big and filled with FRESH PEACHES

our confusion masqueraded as timidity for only a second

before my best friend stood at the front of the bus with a FRESH PEACH in his hand

peach juice and a grin all over his face–

they were the best peaches I've ever had:

smoky pink fuzz that was worth biting into like an apple

for the sweetness a shade between orange and golden in the middle

so fresh that there was no way to eat them without ending up with juice all over your hands and face 

but so delicious we didn't care. 

I've had a hard time keeping up with this challenge, and I haven't been very proud of my latest poems, so I kind of faded away from this thread. But I finally wrote a poem today that I actually like, so here it is! It was originally inspired by the Escapril prompt "serpentine," but it didn't exactly end up that way…

The Line

The line looped through the streets like a giant snake, 

curving around department stores and apartments, 

elementary schools and parking lots.

More people joined every minute as they heard the news,

rushing to save their place in the quickly growing queue.

Even the most sedentary grandmothers were in the line,

toting their lacy shawls and out-of-fashion slippers,

just like the high school dropouts who didn’t care about anything anymore.

Sharply dressed businessmen elbowed their way past children in hand-me-downs,

who themselves pushed past the kindergarten teachers they used to respect.

Everyone, it seemed, was in the line,

all eager to buy the newly available supplies

of toilet paper. 

—

Stardust, your poems are absolutely amazing! 

A Review of the Color Yellow

Yellow is the bright neon lights of a dingy convenience store,

the nasty stench of an urine-filled toilet,

the tart aftertaste of an acidic lemon.

Yellow is the sweet, creamy flavor of a ripe banana,

the peaceful reaches of a field of sunflowers,

the bright chirp of a newly born chick.

Yellow is the atrocious uniform of a school out of money,

the disgusting appearance of pee-colored lemonade,

the uncomfortable buzz of a crowd of hornets.

Yellow is the warm embrace of a ray of sunshine,

the beautiful leaves of a tree in autumn,

the cheerful symbol of Hufflepuff House.

I give yellow 3 stars out of 5.

I wasn't originally going to post anything on this thread, but I wrote a poem for the Escapril prompt a few days ago that I'll share. I think the prompt was "hands, wrists, teeth."

Trapped and Bound

You, who live by expectations

could never know that

birds still sing in the rain.

You have never known that

a heart could be drawn on the wall

empty,

free of orbiting initials.

You have never been captivated by a book,

because the books you read

are uncaptivating schoolwork.

When you listen to classical strings

you are unaware of sweet,

rhythmic jazz

or loud, heartbroken pop.

The dreams you have

are just dreams

the thoughts you have

are just thoughts.

Your hands could never hold

a pen or a sword,

for they are just mundane tools;

your wrists could never be wrapped in

a hundred bracelets

they will always be bare;

your teeth could never be of use

in a kidnapping

because no one would kidnap you,

anyway,

you, who live by expectations,

who will never know that

birds still sing in the rain. 

I'm defenitely behind now, so I tried to remedy that with this little poem I put together on a whim. It could defenitely do better, but at least now I'll remember it!

my mind will twist itself up into a thousand knots before it answers any question too interesting

endless loops of a cacaphony of a rope

like ripples, every emotion needs a reaction, every reaction needs a reaction

until I am swimming in a wavering world

I try not to invalidate feelings but they are so elusive,

fog-like and hiding in echoes–

is there anything that deserves to be invalidated?

am I smaller or bigger or louder or quieter than everyone else

or have I been decieving myself and we are all doomed to be the same,

every landmark swathed in echoes until I don't know what is original and what is imitation

but everyone learns their first language through imitation–

after all this, is anything bad or good,

and if they are, who am I to know?

the theory of relativity tells us that nothing is constant

and while the impartial openness of my personal everything is comforting, even more encouraging is the knowledge

that if there is any surety in the universe, it lives in the light.

Here's another, nice and short because I'm behind.

I lie awake for hours

even though I've never had more time to think

thoughts are misty threads 

and if I listen to music

and if I close my eyes too long I feel your warmth next to me

I crave things I've never tried

familiarity outside familiarity,

answers and the sudden taste of strawberry soda

I retrace my thoughts over and over again

but there are a thousand lines I'll never draw

hidden in the gray rhythm of rain.