“Poemvember Potion”

My second ProCrasstheNation Poetry Project has come to a completion with this last offering below. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank all that have contributed. Whether it was in offering a word of inspiration to seed a poem, by  visiting my website to view a post, or by commenting and sharing the work I’ve created; I appreciate your patience, consideration, and encouragement.

I ask for your continued support, and look forward to offering you fresh content as we move into a new and exciting year.

*The poem below is composed of  the 29 words or phrases (all bolded and italicized) that were used as poem titles for the past month.

 

I share with you my witches brew…

 

“Poemvember Potion”

 

My body is my home.

A place of profound and unconditional love.

It requires great energy to sustain a healthy esteem in modern society.

A phoneciety, wherein we lose ourselves in technology,

and withdraw from the world.

We miss the good things.

Perhaps, noticing that within every post rain rainbow,

or promise of inner peace,

resides redemption for a weary soul.

I weather the waves of naysayers and doubters.

Striking out into the wilderness,

and hiking in the isolation of doubt as it surrounds me,

and challenges every microscopic fiber of my resolve to not fold inward.

I push forward through the adversity of life,

like the Red Sox finally winning the world series after an extended drought.

Redefining what sanctification means.

Realigning my essence and my body into a cohesive syzygy.

What makes a man, a man?

Diversion.

 “What if C-A-T really spelled DOG?”

The 1980’s Celtics/Lakers rivalry

No, nope, maybe?

Do I need to be a deviant daddy,

and stand akimbo in the middle of Boston Traffic,

wearing a pair of red skin-tight singlets?

Or do I need to be a Greasy Texan with a penchant for lobbying against the repealing of the 2nd Amendment?

Perhaps, I can regain the joy of feeling anonymity in a city?

Eating sandwiches and macaroons is the only way back to fine and dandy.

That, or an eight-ball of yayo in the secret pocket of your denim jeans.

A rolling stone gathers no moss, so they say.

Do you think there’s a German word for that?

 

 

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