Rain, rain—come what may! (poeTry)

by amica paige



Rain, rain come what may
My dry spell—do moisten away
Let it pour—thy waterfall
And spring forth—thy cleansing rain
That, on them, the sun will glisten
Morning dew for my well.

I won't submerge, but immerse instead
in thy deep, dark, cold waters
I'll not drown, but swim up instead
upward bound onto the surface
The water sparkles at the surface
Precious jewels for my well.

In Good Company (poeTry)

by amica paige



Funny, this business of reputation is,
what tireless mental exertion it consists!
Endless weighing, forever peeping
adding, removing, and calculating
to ensure the company of the best societies
exhibiting just the finest qualities, or so it seems
on the surface at least.
In trying your best to avoid the basest--
those blatant banalities--such vulgar entities
you keep some at arms length,
less they tweet and mention your name,
thus making you vulnerable
to risky associations and immaterial organizations.
No, you don't want to be seen
by those similarly obsessed with,
or whose passions are devoted rather,
to this massive social scene.
But as followers, they're quite safe,
those mere entities attempting to connect,
Just don't reciprocate.
Or others will see
the associations you make.

What If (poeTry)

by amica paige



If we all held hands, could we conquer death?
Young ones and grown ones, all locked up in arms
Holding me holding you holding him holding her
Would the heat then all around us light up the ground?
And would our voices reach the heavens when we chorus,
God can you hear us, do you hear our sound?
But would the earth shake its grounds when it hears our sound?
Or would the oceans dump its waters while we stand our ground.
But just imagine what would happen if we all held hands.
Just don't put me in the middle of some bloodied hands.

Delightful Child (poeTry)

by amica paige
***My entry for Writer's Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompts



What a joyful girl you were
Such a cheerful spirit you had back then
Dancing and singing until you dropped
Drawing and counting your bit of change
You'd skip towards the ice cream man
down the street in his red cart
the second you heard its bell ringing.
We used to play the Barbie blonde,
Remember the only one you had?
Such pretty skin she had!--that grown-up doll
was as perfect as your cousins.
"Why can't you be like them?
Or even like the girls in school?
Not only are they smart, you see
but such charming personalities
are made for TV too, you know."
Remember when you failed your test
and hid it from your mom?
She wouldn't understand, I know
it would have made her flip, god knows
Remember when your aunt got mad
that you failed your spelling too?--
"Those English words have meanings
Don't be stupid and start memorizing."
Pardon your aunt for her pinches,
the ones she laid on your sweaty skin.
She needed a place to stay,
while she studied for her B.A.
Your mom was so kind--that's her sister
Remember she took you out that time?
She just didn't like your chubby face
and couldn't read what's in your chest,
like you didn't even know it then
when something shrunk inside of you.
So don't cry anymore
you've washed them away--the marks
countless times before
And look at you now.
Do you see how I've grown?
Yes there's much work to be done.
But don't you worry, we'll be just fine.
So we'll part for now,
cause you're stronger now.
But since you've not been told,
let me say this now
what a delightful child you really are,
like the happy girl you were back then
before everything else happened
that only made you stronger.

On writing (poeTry)

by amica paige



sometimes it comes
enraptured in love, I
bear it--a child
so rich and free flowing

too often it pains
all efforts attempted
a monster to bore
ideas so meager

Hollowed Night (poeTry)

by amica paige
***My entry for Writer's Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompts on Halloween



A turn too late
you should have heard
the news announced
of the fearsome death
which claimed the lives
of two, we're told--
an innocent one,
the other, old.
In cheery chants
both called, in trance
the witch of yore
and the candy man
on Halloween
near hallowed grounds
just a stretch away
from fiery sounds.
A shriek!--not far beyond.
Their tires went screech
when they heard the sound.
They were bound for home
in a nearby town
to trick-or-treat
when they heard the sound.
The young one whimpered,
Please let's go.
Just a second, child,
you are safe inside.
Just making sure
that no one's hurt,
Great-grandpa said
near the hallowed grounds.
As soon as he
swung out his door,
a thing swooped in
with an eerie sound.
Next a sudden Thug!--with a sweeping noise
then--Graanndpaaaaaa! screamed the child.
And just like that, he was taken. And the old man, gone just the same.
And an evil shrill pierced the hallowed night,
a fearsome evening called Halloween.
Some steps beyond
the hallowed grounds
is a little hut in a clearing.
Unusual things are strewn about
and scraps of cloth beside a cauldron.
And in that road
is an abandoned car
with bags of candy in it.
If you catch this now
but had made that turn,
don't stop for those
infernal sounds.
Don't check outside
if someone's hurt
but quicky pass the hallowed grounds.

Your only other option (poeTry)

by amica paige



life. why?
Why life?
Why, life?
be. Cause death is. your only other option.
So here. I am. Life.
Take my hand and thrive.

coffee, spaces, ellipsis. now what--lowercase?

blah. nothing. ellipsis...lots of it...to fill up space...instead of uhs. now what? what now? still nothing. more ellipsis...tons of it...to fill up space...instead of uhs. what now? now what? still nothing. this could go on and on. ellipsis...more of it...or is it them?--more of them...to fill up space...instead of uhs. and blanks. but you know, uhs might actually be better than blanks, or spaces. blanks or spaces...what to call the void... blanks, spaces, void... empty. nothing. what now? now what? coffee. good idea! why didn't i think of it first? you did. but you wanted to do this stream of consciousness writing thing. you've even forsaken the bathroom. okay. i cannot hurt my kidneys anymore than i might already have. so, i am now going to get up and step away from this, first to use the bathroom, next to get coffee. shouldn't it be the other way around?--coffee, then bathroom. everyone knows it's a diuretic. oh for cyring out loud!--bathroom, coffee, coffee, bathroom. what now, now what. really? tell you what--ellipsis. bathroom, coffee...coffee, bathroom, and so on and so forth... it will go on and on and on... happy now? good. it's all good. blahs, spaces, and ellipsis...bathroom and coffee...to fill the void. and lowercase. yes, and lowercase. it's all good.

Reflection. (poeTry)

by amica paige



I don't know what happened,
but I know how you feel.
Like looking in a mirror...
you're human.
And I am man.

Cliche. (poeTry)

by amica paige



I know it's such a cliche,
but if you knew tonight would be your last
just what would you do today?

Paint that picture.
Write that story.
Sing that song now.
You may just see the world singing along.

Dance!--to your heart's delight.
Love. Even if you think it insane.
Love anyway.
If not, it will all be over just the same.
You and I know it.
It'll all be over before we know it.
Yet we all know it,
though we choose to forget it.

So tell your story.
You may just see that the world has been listening all along.

Carpe Diem!

Thrive (song lyrics)

by amica paige

Words and art have a habit of dying in silence. They must be seen and heard.
They must be freed and shared.
I wrote these lyrics a few years ago and have tinkered with basic chords for it, as I love music.
But I'm still not a musician. Hopefully someday, I'd encounter a great musician who'd turn this into a song.

You've been stuck in your cocoon
Only stepping out in the moon
Watching and seeing you slide
But I'm still alive

Voices calling out in your head
Sanity's gone early to bed
Watching and waiting to fly
But you're still alive

Nothing to hide from
I'm out the door
while you slip...away

Nothing to live for
You're stuck to the floor
as i ride...away

When all's been said
and everything's been done
what else is left?
When all's been seen
taken with a grin
what is left behind?

To death, in red
A heart is bled, unsaid.
To dive, to thrive
A choice is made, unheard.

We are what's left behind - 2x
unread.
We are stories,
forever we're stories,
untold.

Click. Clack. QUERTY.

This was my entry for Writer's Digest Prose Poetry contest.



Click, click, click. Clickety click. Fingers fast slipping across the keys. Click, clack. Clack, click. Back and forth, forward and backward. Up, down, and all around. This is actually fun--Ding! Onomatopoeia, she whispers, smiling. Left to right, and right to left. Fingers pushing and pulling. QUERTY, her mind utters. Why that now? whispers she again. Like you should still be sighing. This happens all the time--Ding! Fact is, she and her mind are forever talking. Talk about being engaged! Click, clack. Deep in her subconscious too, no doubt. Even when heavily submerged in her REM. Click, clack. Call it constant communication on auto-pilot, while still getting some zzz's--Ding! This endless conversation, this often mindless, mental stream, she's used to it by now. She should be. Clack, clack. Unlike those days when she'd pound herself for what she thought was a self-imposed ADD. Self-diagnosed it was really and entirely not her fault. Click, clack. You wouldn't blame a mind that simply goes on overdrive, would you? Clack, clack. Actually, she deserves a pat on the shoulder. And coffee. Starbucks would be nice. Or chocolate, or both. Sweet caffeine for a hyperactive mind. Or a new book. Even a finely bound classic. Would a tap do?--I'm kidding, her mind teases, more often now, it seems. How in the world did she manage college? I helped you, her mind...clacks, for lack of a better word. But even then, she knew better. She started over--Ding! An AA this time. Click. It was a tough decision, but she took it anyway and did not back out. Even with a BBA--heck, after a BBA!--for crying out loud. Back and forth, forward and backward. Clack. How scary was that, to feel so left behind, as spates of new grads flood the gates, all hoping to till the ground, year after year after year. Clack, clack. To have gone back is to have seriously lagged behind those who stayed, those who were now way ahead. But to have continued in a new direction presented great uncertainties and intimidation. Could one expect anything less than fierce competition? In a creative arena, you've got to be kidding. I warned you, chides her mind. I told you to stay in the path, keep your emotions in check, and watch that passion. Your heart would get you in trouble. Clack. I'm just saying...clack, clack.

But she has long since passed that crossroad and traveled a new road. Click. Her consciousness switches. Click, click. Where did you store that information anyway? Her mind shifts. Typical mental random access mode. Speaking of RAM, as in computer-speak, it's such a common term nowadays. Kind of like Jobs. No, not the workplace stuff. Steve's surname. The apple guy. Besides, workplace jobs are fast becoming extinct these days. But poor Steve... He isn't poor, what are you on? Clack. He's recently rested in peace--honestly, don't you read? Oh...sorry. RIP Steve. Still, such a shame, with all the apple stuff now orphaned...QUERTY. What now? Clack. Wait, she's remembering--Ding!--the convention salesmen used to efficiently type the word, "typewriter", of course! The keys were all conveniently located on the same line. Click. Hence, the potential buyers were impressed--Ding! Thank goodness for Google and Wikipedia for their ever-growing presence to ensure that our source materials are just clicks away. Clack. And to Steve. But I helped too--her mind chimes in--Ding! In fact, I've always helped you. Clack, clack. See, you've written this much already. Wow, sure glad that Writer's Digest has posted this challenge. Or was it Robert Lee Brewer? Remind me to give him a shout-out later on Twitter. Oh, now you need my help?--her mind chatters, as she shifts in her chair. She doesn't mean to ignore it, this integral part of her life. Click, clack. Yet, every now and then, she yearns to call the shots. It must learn to live with her. Her art. Her passion. Her heart. She'd do the same. She's been. I'm really liking this, she says with a grin. Click, click. Same here, if it is indeed prose poetry, her mind yaks. Clack, clack. But there isn't any typewriter in sight. Tap, tap. What's that tapping noise now? What happened to the clicks and the clacks? The ding's gone too. Onomatopoeia. Must have all just been inside her head, and none of it real, she reckons. Of course it is happening inside your head...but why on earth should that mean it is not real?--recalls her mind. Apparently, it's what the greatest wizard who ever lived told the boy who lived at King's Crossing, according to J.K. Rowling. By the way, Rowling initially wrote her stories by hand. With a pen. Burning your eyebrows writing stories with ink on your hands makes you a real deal. Just saying, while tapping on the iPAD.