PROSE Acrostic

Poets, writers and lyricists are ultimately

Responsible for everything magical, historical and imagined that

Occurs in and out of the world and common

Sense tells us that words are not only

Essential, without them we would be nothing

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Challenge of theprose.com

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49

I don’t have personal history so

I can’t truly speak of inner and

constant fear,

threat to safety,

misery of concealment.

What I have is familiarity,

memories of mirror balls and strobe lights,

techno decibels and Gloria Gaynor,

beautiful sweaty bodies,

glistening with rendezvous and desire,

walking home in a tropical dawn,

laughing with my gay boys, arm and arm,

one last cigarette and

maybe a splash in the pool in the dark.

I

have

been

there.

Gathered in clubs with smiles large and

laughter unbound,

grinding,

shimmying,

thrusting,

modified salsa way past midnight.

Never a thought of danger,

nor an allusion of dread,

no panic, no fright.

Shaking the images in my imagination

is not a simple process.

I can no way comprehend

the terror.

And

I cannot accept the anguish.

These feelings of loss and sorrow

are not mine personally but

they could have been

us.

We could have been

them.

My mourning is not extinguished.

My grief is still twirling on the dance floor.

Orlando June 12 2016

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Farcical

They told me M&M’s melt in your mouth and not in your hand.

And then they told me that Jesus loves all the little children.

Harsh reality is when you realize the teachers are not on your side and the principal is not your pal.

Boys only want one thing. 

That was wrong, too. 

They want much more.



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(From Prose Prompt June 13, 2016)

The prompt for this Wednesday is to write a poem about something that is Nothing Important

Saturday is your birthday. 

How could you think it would be important to me? 

It is certain to me that there is nothing important 

about my celebrations that make you 

notice insignificant numbers 

that rotate on your calendar. 

Days, months, years pass and the vacuum grows. 

Someday it will be a cave for me to fall into. 

Saturday is your birthday. 

I will go to sleep Friday with birthday cakes, 

old photos, labor pains and 

the scent of vernix filling my dreams. 

Saturday night I will sleep with a different type of ache. 

I never lost you because we don’t lose some things; 

they simply develop a distance and 

then we mourn in a visceral way. 

Living, parting and dying are on the same path 

and though it is certain to me that there is nothing important 

about your celebration that I would be a part of, 

I can keen if I want to. 

Saturday is your birthday. 

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June 5, 2016 A Poem about LOVE and OTHER Things

Babies and young lovers 
kiss in much the same way. 
Open mouthed 
receiving 
full of love 
and 
willing to take in everything. 
When does the face seal up in a manner 
to stop the flow of 
love and knowledge, 
vulnerability and tenderness? 
Why do we become guarded, wary, 
timid and judgmental? 
We begin life, 
love 
and 
lust 
with submission, 
rolling onto our backs, 
exposing the soft flesh of our bellies. 
Then we turn to jade, 
slowly, 
a process that involves betrayal, mistrust, 
little murders 
and colored lies. 
We die, 
tightlipped, underwhelmed, 
secrets buried; our goodness 
tied up in old photos, 
winners’ ribbons, 
perfume tainted with age.


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