I have two for today. The first is from a prompt to write a 'portrait poem'. The second is something called a rictameter, which is a 9 line syllabic poem. The first and last words are the same and should be two syllables. I wrote it for a friend who is going through a tough time health-wise.
Awake, you hear music in your head,
even the bad pop songs that haunt you
for hours at a time.
A silhouette in a leather chair,
a shadow cast in a dimly lit
hallway in between bedrooms,
you weigh heavy on the afternoon
in this empty house with the
smell of one candle burning
caramel pecan into membranes
stimulating this forming of words
that moves the platelets around.
You rise only for water,
for brief strolls to pet the dog,
to carry in new burden from the mailbox.
The words will carry into the night
and shut out everything else around them.
This focus is a blessing, a curse -
you believe in neither.
Throw them all together into the night
and hope some of them stick to something,
to someone who might be listening,
anyone who bleeds the same way.
A note of comfort
your body will
falter but you cannot
let it be your prison. Swallow
the pills to bind you, bite back the urge to
give in and give up. Rage and muse
all of it. Cry it out.
Spit in its eyes,