In the depths of the wishing well
Dwells the girl of my youthful dreams.
Barnacled lips hold in her screams.
The scummy water tastes like hell.
Stagnant with time, do not swallow
Or more regrets will surely follow.
Ebbing inside her are raw swells
That crash against her cold, closed heart,
Which years ago, misplaced its chart.
“Keep her safe,” says her hard shell.
“Leech her eyes so she cannot see
The life she had been meant to lead.”
As the darkness weaves its sad spell,
She and I bar the hurtful gates,
While wishing for a kinder fate.
©2021 KT Workman
(Note: The Constanza, created by Connie Marcum Wong, consists of five or more 3-line stanzas. Each line has a set meter of eight syllables. The first lines of all the stanzas can be read successively as an independent poem, with the rest of the poem weaved in to express a deeper meaning. The first lines convey a theme written in monorhyme, while the second and third lines of each stanza rhyme together. Rhyme scheme: a-b-b, a-c-c, a-d-d, a-e-e, a-f-f. Definition taken from Poets Collective. Introduction – Poetry Forms (poetscollective.org)
Image by Britannic Zane from Pixabay
a blue day, no sun
shines down from a gray heaven
to warm my cold soul
(Note: Japanese Senryu—3 lines, 17 syllables. 1st line, 5 syllables; 2nd line,7 syllables; 3rd line 5 syllables. Subject matter usually the human condition.)
Have you ever had one of those days (or weeks or months or years) when life gets you down, and it feels as if it would be nice to just move on? Listening to “Jubilee” by Gretchen Peters… https://youtu.be/v8WiEO2u7Ao …a beautiful, but haunting song.
Image by David Mark from Pixabay
I was not born to be happy…
No bright star shone down on me
When I was dropped headfirst into the world
Red-faced, kicking, screaming
And placed in my mother’s arms—
The only true home I’ve ever known
Instead, a dark star witnessed my birth
Stepped out of hell’s black hole
Took me in its cold bony hands
And christened me “Wednesday’s Child”
Damning me to a life of woe
Not for me fair of face or full of grace
A clumsy witch with frizzy red hair
Who mounts her broom
And beneath an alabaster moon
Runs wild with the night
Night understands, night knows
What beats inside my heart
What tangles and twists my soul
It doesn’t question, doesn’t judge
Night is my beloved familiar
There’s a certain comfort in failure
A happiness inside misery
A pleasure in numb emotions
For a Wednesday’s Child
Who has serenely accepted her fate
I was not born to be happy
©️2020 KT Workman
Image via Pixabay