You could write a ten minute poem.
In nine minutes from now, the temperature turns on.
I could have eaten the pots and pans in the sink.
But they tasted like old leftover stuff.
You could jump in.
If there are things in there.
Like creative books and patience.
Maybe give the stove some time.
Two minutes are all you need to write a poem.
A small poem, the size of a mothball.
It tasted strange.
Creative stuff sitting out.
Gets forgotten about.
But I still wrote a poem.
Which I forgot in the fridge overnight.
Two minutes are all you need.
So wash your hands.
And finish making lunch.
Categories:
mothball, writing,
Form: Free verse
-What is the failure key?
They imagine!
-What is wrong about that?
They do sleep on the job! That is the general idea!
-What is dream then?
A subconscious urge that yarns for non-aspiring unfulfilled reticent.
-Now what is non-aspiring?
Without mediocrity, some kind of ambition.
-Why is it needed?
They are absolutely needed to egress, as these are toxic like mothball!
-Did you ever try mothball?
Nope! Did you?
-Nope! I did not declare too!
I did! Is it not your problem?
-How so?
And so on.....
The lanyard is a verse: evangelical
"Finish what he started!"
Categories:
mothball, body,
Form: Ballad
I just stood bewildered, staring
Specks of the sky slowly pass through the glass
Adding a frosty sheen to the scene
A soft, creamy dew passes through.
A boy standing by a mothball light
The dark entrance of nature exposed
The darkly hidden entrance of the mind
You may be in a slump, so
Don't muse about relying on this.
How the spindle works
It's different now, and it's pell-mell
Yet, notions have left my mind
My feelings and views are scattered
On my face, a faint answer shows.
Written: January 8, 2022
Categories:
mothball, analogy, anxiety, inspirational,
Form: Free verse
For seeing the shy kid in the back row
For triggering my mind to misbehave
For rousing history's spark from shadow
The past is not mothball statistics, saved
It is people; bloody, broken and brave
For lessons taught, in all glory and flaw
I learned who I am - thank you, Mr. Law.
10/18/19
Categories:
mothball, encouraging, high school, history,
Form: Rhyme Royal
Fold up your long sleeves,
shove knee socks drawered,
mothball your thick coats,
and back kick your boots -
Spring's freedom now sings.
Spring joys beckon
all who lust her.
Her fragrance wafts
for barefoot gaits.
New life peaks
as Spring's prose
touches skin.
Spring mix -
life gifts -
Bliss!
... CayCay
April 5, 2019
Categories:
mothball, appreciation, beautiful, nature, paradise,
Form: Diminished Hexaverse
Tulip turning. 1 2 3. Prettily pasting post in a tree. Shapeless orbs ornately decorated. And a singing bowl asleep near a fridge freezer. Radio not a field mouse. Declaration airwaves. A mothball flu. Power pointing pontifical pontiff. Plea to a pea. And a glass human being. Benign is a compass. Grateful is a directional flirt. Gravitationally given going grabbing giblets graciously. Take no wheel to an honourable friend. Especially a right honourable one. Left turn right turn middle middle break. Traffic light dancer. Its best to wear a gold bead rather than a decade of silverware on ones hand. Doesn't one agree? Hahahaha daring playsuit with plunging neckline hahahaha a little bug smiling and smoking. Hahahaha draperies. Xxxx daboya z
Categories:
mothball, art,
Form: I do not know?
Woman at a stop.
She stood at the stop
Cracking knees, stooping shoulders
Mothball odors
Medicine pores,
Disparate thoughts, waves of empty,
Numb buzzing nothingness
Imbibing vibrations of motorists,
Whirring, whizzing by
Crumpled yellow sere sheaves blow
By the venous sheer skin, her feet
Swollen out of her shoes
She waits,
For the bus.
Categories:
mothball, age, city,
Form: Free verse
a wishbucket painting of a midwest
sky in the evening.
an old rusty singlespeed scwinn bicycle.
folded mothball memories stacked
in cardboard.
and you can pass down three generations
in an A-framed wonderment.
lost to all but not to dust, where spiders play
keeper of all still keepsakes.
thier hollow formed webs catch
dreams in the night.
Categories:
mothball,
Form: I do not know?
"Was it worth it?"
at the end of the day
I ask of me.
Glancing back, casting
random nets,
I conclude
nostalgia ain't what it used to be.
I have climbed this far,
from the gentle gradient base,
child's play;
from adolescent slopes,
verdant and lush;
from boulder passes,
chasms and crevasses.
I felt my own presence;
now this.
To driving mental pitons
into sheer ice;
scrabbling and clinging
on for dear life,
when life itself is
a vertical wall,
I claw, I panic
should I fall.
Cheekbones pressed
hard against the dead of night;
fingers white and rigid,
eyes screwed up tight.
Mothball breath over mint humbug
gums, gasp, condensation puffs.
Holding on and praying
to something
is never enough.
"Was it worth it, then?"
at the end of the day
I don't yet know.
I suppose the answer
will be in whatever
happens next:
when I fall towards the light,
when I let go...
Categories:
mothball, life, mystery, nostalgia, people,
Form: Blank verse