NaPoWriMo Day 16: playing at life

Video games give a great reminder of lives

too short, and too easily run over;

these days, easily re-built or re-booted,

according to your app, or whatever’s closer.

 

Your avatar lives as though a real you,

ducking, diving, dashing – always a fight

to save your last life, as though those before

the last one didn’t count for nought.

 

Except the reality of play is a metaphor of real.

Why play at life, when it’s a fragile gift.

Here and gone in a heartbeat, it is.

Like a game, life’s time is swift.

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a poem for family

It’s funny how a family grows

in newly cutely ways.

my one of origin hurt me raw

tipping through the centuries.

 

the new family I’m creating now

is startling me anew

i have so much love around

a fresh purpose to pursue.

NaPoWriMo 2018 day 8: the whispers of a tomb

Stand tall, stand true.

Find balance in what you do.

 My four diamond holes

to help find what you extol.

My three central blocks

to stay firm against life’s knocks.

The column at my core

to align with what you adore.

The security at my base,

to remind you to live with grace.

Tides come, tides go,

time shoots its arrows.

Stand true, stand tall.

One day you won’t be here at all.

 

NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 2: a to-and-fro on commitment

 

 

Me:

I really love you, I want to commit,

But life has me stressed

up to the armpits.

 

You:

You love your stress, can’t live without,

you create it all ways.

In you I doubt.

 

Them:

If only they knew the short time they had left

they’d spend less on the lack,

nor let fear be their theft.

 

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security versus story

How much longer will I pad the dreams

of others who pay me daily.

 

Why is my vase full of distracting sand

instead of pebbles that count, that matter.

 

My true life skills, my singular gifts

are stifled in admin, thoughts of bills.

 

Striking out, writing stories down

feels impossible, crazy, waste of time.

 

And so I count, I help, I fix, I support

the sorry souls of others.

 

But when will it dawn that I could die

with my stories still inside me.

A poem about fake friendships

We all change and move on.

I know that’s a fact.

So why bother to maintain

those friendships with cracks?

Is it to keep those pals

who give you big follows

on social sites?

To spy on their lives;

dazzle

with stories bright?

To delete would hurt

both them and you.

Or would it?

If you don’t like them

and they don’t care,

why be so polite?

There are ‘friends’ in my life

who don’t give a damn

what I feel, where I go,

how I roll, who I am.

Yet I keep a pretence

of wanting to meet.

And when I do,

it’s myself I cheat.

The paint is thinning

on my fake-friends tableau.

The question is why

I just don’t let go.