Speedwriting poetry

Foreword: Just like how you have people speed paint to generally become better artists, I prefer to speed write to create better prose and poetry in the long run.

Nature Poem:

Glorious rays of morning light burst forth from Father Sun’s crown as it peeks over the world’s edge,

announcing a bright and shining new dawn:

• Mornings came as to nothing, just a continuity of the next day, movements, moments, times, the worlds of nothing and everything created but for what?

The sharp sound of a twig snapping echoes throughout the forest:

• Movement, moments, times, the world moves on whether at a standstill and the life steps on the branches of the fallen and moves and moves and breathes and life is corroding for ever in this forest.

Tiny munching sounds drift up from the earth as a small shrubbery is sucked into the ground.

• This forest, breathing living in a situational moment of a standstill and the life that steps on the branches that moves and moves in the movements, moments, times of the world.

A large shadow flits across the edge of the tree line for a bare instant, vanishing between the trees.

• Nature is limited. Though everything can be of nature, the world is limited to reserves and branches and tree clumps. Movements, moments, times. The world will continue to move on, and nature and the animals will move their course. But life is unstopped and stopped and movement and life will continue with the continuity of the next day – Mornings came as to nothing. Nothing in a blink of an eye.

Place description Poem:

Almost completely concealed by creeping vines

an open shop in the corner of the garden has been

constructed

of dark wood that is slowly rotting away Precarious

shelves and tables that have been hastily repaired with nails and even rope

stand around the half-room

displaying the various wares that

being of a relatively high quality seem to be out of place in this

shabby

establishment The vines cover almost every surface

creeping up the walls and ceiling and even spreading out over the floor twisting around the table legs and up the sides of a counter at the far back

The rest of the garden is filled with thorny bushes and dark exotic flowers with dirt paths leading to the shop and to the larger portion of

the garden

that continues

to the northeast

Musician Playing:

She swept the viola between her breasts, bringing it up slowly, slowly – creeping so slowly upwards.

Nudging the chin rest above her shoulder, she stopped. Barely clothed, or bad eyesight would say, she would rest on the side and play and play.

Sounds came out of nothing. Beauty would come out of nothing. A gift as the bow swept the strings. Swept and struck and dripped and the sound would drip and sing and fall and the viola would cry and breathe to me.

• It is an art of the musician, isn’t it? To bring life to instruments that the mudane would perceive as a tangible object, and believe that it would do nothing but remain as an object? That the life and love can be directed through? It is the art of the musician.

Sounds came out of nothing. Beauty would come out of nothing. How her fingers will press against the strings and drip and droop and how the bow will clash against the viola swept with innocent naked fingers and a drop of hair will drop and fall against the body of the viola. How crafted out of wood and the dreams of the listener would come out and play itself all at

the musician’s whim.

3×5 poem:

You left the cigarettes on the ashtray,

As you left home last night.

Is it a bad thing, that reason that you smoke?

It is sad, how when you leave,

All that I do is sit on the kitchen chair,

and breathe in that smoke you left in the air.

It is a way of feeling you there,

Your fingers dripping across my body.

Your scent, your scent falling across.

The cigarettes on the ashtray. How I hate you.

Home:

The mist would lift up after a few minutes of staring.

Clearing out the covering in front.

The military trucks and cars will still move past.

The kings and queens still moving past.

But I was stuck in my own kingdom.

Safe in my bed.

The blinds slightly open, safe in my world.

It feels like being a king somehow.

Safe in my democracy.

One for you and two for me.

The trucks still move outside of the walls, moving past

But for me, I am the king of my domain here,

At home.