Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company! discussion

PATTERNS OF BEHAVIOR

Patterns have a tendency
to mold or distinguish
even determine behavior;
the full moon shines
brightly once a month
in a never ending cycle

That brings with it the
grave patterns of abuse
which are made obvious
by a higher crime rate
as the moon glows
full and bright

While conjuring from
deep inside the need
for violence that seems
to be lurking in the
spirits of mankind;
hovering, waiting

Just below the surface
in certain species on this
earth; simply laying
in wait on the cycle and
arrival of the golden orb
that brings with it

Discord in the souls
of many; a documented
increase in the violence
perpetrated on the streets
that has been recorded
and discussed;

While in my home the
desire arouse each month
for domestic violence
as well, equally as
consistent as any
pattern,

Coming just as the
moon was full and even
though in my mind I
attempted to deny this
very real phenomenon,
I could not deny

The black eyes, bruised
body parts and the invisible
scars to my heart that left
me with no alternative
except to buy into this
philosophy

Recognizing the truth
in the lunar effect on
human behavior, often
called lunar insanity

Misery and Flames

I can feel it in the way you kiss my cheek
Your eyes don't light the same for me
Thought I was done with this pattern of misery

I can hear it in the way you say my name
Your voice falls flat where there used to be a flame
When I was your muse and we had it all to lose

I read it in the words you left behind
Your familiar scrawl cut me like a knife
When you wrote I wasn't worth your time
Just a washed out memory of days gone by

But if you ever read this letter, I hope you take the time to see
That I was stuck on repeat, in a constant loop of misery
And you finally set me free

Thanks to Nicky for suggesting the topic!

Wow, I'd forgotten I'd suggested it!

From Julie:

Clutter makes clutter,
I am heard to mutter,
The pattern of thoughts,
"Steady as she goes",
We've all been taught',
"It's only stuff".
I guess that's tough,
A land of free thought,
We've all been taught,
When knowledge was sought,
Flea brain hopping,
Mental cluttering,
I am heard to utter,
Mindlessly I utter,
"Clutter makes clutter."

Title : Patterns Forming
Poet : Edward Davies

The patterns forming in our minds
That help us memorise
The facts that lead us through our lives
Up until our demise

They aid us with our train of thought
And help our minds to function
They bring to the fore favoured thoughts
And bury all compunction

The patterns forming in our heads
They help us bear in mind
That sympathy’s the way to go
And always to be kind

But sometimes happenstance can cause
Our minds to break a bit
And often anger overcomes
More than we will admit

So do take care of how you act
And avoid hate and scorn
And try to use the kindness from
The patterns that we form

Wasted

Wasted, tasted death
Raced it until there was nothing left, out of breath
I played in the decay like a frolicking child
I’ll pay for that one day
Hence the mile climb
“Downward facing dog” hidden in the fog
Lying in the boggy marsh of hunger and despair
Finally reaching the thoroughfare
Had I run a mile or a quarter?
I didn’t keep up
I don’t have myself in order
There’s no earthly future
But, a future nonetheless
One beneath the mist
Foils me at every turn
Like kryptonite it burns.

A wrote: "Mushy-gushy stuff...



Your pattern

your push and pull,
your blue eyes
captivate my soul,
our embrace
feels beautiful.
It is with your touch
I am safe and whole.

Al"

I really like that Al, it's quite minimal but says a lot.

an old poem, but still open for critique from you fantastic folks :)

Heart of Things


Things break
in time
on their own
without intervention
from rough human
hands

This stone in my hand
still, smooth, silent
patterns hidden
in its firm heart
like the lines
on my palm

This ground
every other land
came before
the first hammer
the first spear
the first bullet
mocked the heart
of things

January – September 2008
-o-
from Alien to Any Skin

Aplomb

One, two, three.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.

Jeden, dva, tri.
Jeden, dva, tri.
Jeden, dva, tri.

Sugar Garden Zen
        by Guy Duperreault (FB&C welcomed)


She pushed her finger through the spilt sugar
Tracing out
       slowly pushing away
the gritty whiteness to reveal the dark grout lines in the kitchen floor.
She carefully included in the regularity of the pattern,
       as if to confirm,
              perhaps even embrace,
the triumph        of        randomness,
the large broken earth-toned shards of the ancient clay pot
having become an expression of sharp
       entropic


              creativity.

It had cost her a year’s wages, almost, when she had bought it,
              and loved it,
loved even more that she        used        it        on a nearly weekly basis
               for baking.

Now this.

Her fingers continued to retrace the lines,
       clean more of the sugar from them
while she wrestled with metaphors and sadness, transience and aesthetics.
She thought of the effort that that floor represented,
       the creativity put into the pattern and the selection
              and the laying,
and the thought
       the        random       thought       
that until this she hadn’t thought of it as a piece of art.

Art smashes art with an easy exuberant yogic grace as pattern,
perhaps the ultimate pattern.

She went and got her camera
looked at her meaningless tracings in sugar and porcelain and sand,

              hesitated before pressing the shutter,
       but press it she did as was her pattern,
to record this white garden miniature as metaphor
       for sand and rock,
before getting,        with a smile,
              the broom and dust pan.

On Meaning in Chaos

by Connie D.

I thought I knew the rules
but they changed
and unlike my furniture
that I arranged
and walked seamlessly though
alone in the dark
they were difficult to see
and like Noah's ark
held too much to comprehend.

I searched my brain
stretched my mind
opened it to thoughts
of every kind.
I tried not to judge
I tried to forgive
I tried to learn
to live and let live.

All I could see was chaos
and it made me afraid
my thoughts became scattered
My mind became frayed
So I organized my thoughts
into rules of my own
and decided to make
the whole world my home
and walk seamlessly in the dark once more.

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Jim wrote: "an old poem, but still open for critique from you fantastic folks :)

Heart of Things


Things break
in time
on their own
without intervention
from rough human
hands

This stone in my hand
still, s..."

Great poem, Jim. Have you read Conversation With A Stone by Wislawa Szymborska? It also echoes breaking, and a recurring 'pattern' making it a perfect entry for this week. (Szymborska might be my favourite poet. That hasn't changed for a bunch of years.)

And another good week of poems everyone. I wish I had time to comment on each, but not tonight, as is usual these days.

Thanks, Guy! That's a real compliment.

Back in 1998 I had a stopover in Hong Kong en route to Manila. A friend who was working there at the time took me in and that was the first time I heard Szymborska's name mentioned. My friend said I write like her. It took me many years (over a decade!) before I read anything by her. I have one of her books and I do love her writing, but I try not to read her. I guess I'm worried I'll fall (more) under her shadow if I do. Silly, I know. But you just made me see that now. :)

Jim! Not reading her because of that fear means you will likely fall under her shadow. Instead read her, and to free your own voice from her, which you do naturally without effort anyway, write homage poems to some of hers,l like what you did with the three colours. And I didn't consciously link your style of writing to her at all! You have a distinct voice. The link was just the subject and exploration.