Welcome to the eighth day of our 30/30!
Look at you, still showing up to write after a full week of prompts. You are a rock star.
Your prompt today is:
Yearning lays its hands on my
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- Posting your response is not required
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- This is not meant to be the perfect first draft – respond without hesitation for 5-7 minutes, then keep going if you want to
- While our prompts are geared towards poetry, we welcome all kinds of artists
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QuillsEdge Press 
30/30, Day 8
yearning…
this yearning lays its hands
on what is left of my days
a tumble weed spinning in dust
a use to be green dream fields
this yearning lays its hands
on the dusty hours of my day
a wonder of where time goes
a knowing these are lesser days
this yearning lays its hands
deep inside my dreams, turning
them into questions i cannot
answer in these leftover days
this yearning lays its hands
all over me, with body babble
skin screams and muscle moans
just like others of this age
this yearning lays its hands
anointing my head and filling
my mouth with words that taste
the fruit of living past prime
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Pingback: #NationalPoetryMonth’16 Round-up (Day 8) | Bonespark~
For one year, my tongue curled to hold your words
close to me while we stayed three states away.
Gray skies, green mountains,
five deaths—
yearning laid its hands on me
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Yearning lays its hands on my
heart, squeezes again—visualize
it, two hands, the molded middle
like a corseted lady, both of them
interlaced until there is an ache
however invisible and it is the
one that’s ached forever, this
illness inherited from a parent
I never understood until its
grip on me was like the hands
on the bottle: bipolar, the lows,
the manic highs, the THE that
could never be explained, but
its very physicality sent me
into a cocoon, away, gone.
Yearning then, still, after all
these years to not have to
explain or having to, to be
understood. Things in the realm
of the invisible, aren’t, or rather,
are merely imagination, ennui
born of boredom. Get busy, do
more, the helpful urge. Do oxen
feel that driven yoked together
down the row on the terrace in Asia?
Resent having to plod instead
of eating the tips of new rice,
smelling the fresh morning?
How are you, I asked a friend the
other day, and they replied, I’ve
got my mask on. Perhaps it’s the
one Eleanor Rigby kept in her jar
by the door… How did they know?
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Yearning Lays Its Hand
on the mantra I repeat,
the one that says Some people
have it worse. Be happy. Why
should you [you can fill in the blank]?
Yearning is gelato—Sea Salt Caramel,
yearning’s smooth, says Open Wide.
Yearning is the spoon.
Yearning wants to choke that mantra.
Yearning smacks its hand
upside my thick head, claps
shut my mantra spewing mouth
and drags out the thing with feathers.
Yearning is the thing with feathers,
hollow bones that stick in the throat
and break, but yearning
doesn’t care, flies anyway.
Yearning hurts. Its hand is fire.
Yearning wants to talk that stupid
mantra outta there. Yearning crumples
lists—perfect rim shots to the trash.
Yearning’s angry arm sweeps everything
off the desk then stands there
panting. The train to Philadelphia
with its insistent rocking?
That’s yearning—all aboard!
Yearning grabs me by the chin,
won’t let me turn away. Yearning’s
a tornado razing fences, lifting the roof.
I’m shivering in the basement
with no place to hide.
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another catch up from the weekend:)
Yearning lays its hands on my chest
and I can hardly breathe.
The care I long for, the nurturing, the peace
pulsate from the wrists to the fingertips,
electrifying my skin,
reaching down into my chest
to tap on each lung,
to draw breath, to stop breath –
it’s all the same –
in breath, out breath, no breath
where yearning pokes its bony fingers.
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