I’m feeling generous, like I want to share a Work-in-Progress with all those who swim through the soup of the internet and stop on my page. For some reason, I can’t seem to finalize this poem, so what better way to stamp out these tentative feelings than to boldly post it—Forgive the split infinitive. Courage isn’t synonymous with grammatical precision.—and walk away? I can’t even decide on the title for it. At present, the title is based on my worry stone of choice for the moment: a luminous hunk of aventurine that fits my palm perfectly. The body is a little terza rima endeavor with 9–11 syllables per line. I’ve been writing lots of terza rima lately, come to think of it. I tried to employ a strict syllable count, but as it kept straying away from it, I let it go in the end. That seems to be the way this poem works, I reckon: the more I struggle, the more I have to accept that it is what it is. Hmmm. Without further ado—
(Aventurine is exalted.)
Jealousy is an unwelcome guest. She
crashes my gate wearing many colors,
never donning the greens that ready
my smile for softer moods. She bickers
with my reason and dresses my door in
violets and their demure golden corners,
hanging ribbons of raspberry that spin
around my intuition. She sets
off the bluebells—their stentorian
music stuns my reflexes—and she lets
my assumptions lapse into grayscale
vignettes that play off my old, murky regrets.
Until next time… ♥