poems – Killian Levy Writes

Instaration #6

Look out the window,
Find a sign, find a face.
The stacks of well-worn sorrow
are paled against snow-dusted glass.

I hold my hand out to you,
Press the glass, feel my warmth.
Your home is much more than a hearth.

Spent the weekend in chilly St. Paul for Jingle Ball and stayed at the beautiful St. Paul Hotel. It had a very warm and old school feeling against the snow and biting cold of the city.

Just as I was packing for my flight to head home, I pulled open a drawer and saw their beautiful post cards and stationary. Well, I couldn’t help myself. I let my bag fall and pulled the chair out, reaching for my new pen (the one I had stolen from another drawer in that same hotel room earlier) and had to put something down.

This was a nice thing to add to the memory of my trip, so I think I’ll have to do something like this at more of the hotels I visit!

Content

Friends have been posting this and I’m realizing how much of a different meaning it takes on for us writers and bloggers.

What day of the week do you get your best content down on the page?

Spiders

Just a little Halloween inspired prose for October.

SPIDERS

Do I live among the spiders,

or do the spiders live with me?

I am not entirely sure,

Will you help make it clearer to me?

Humble in living, crude in thought,

I make the most of what I haven’t been taught.

I am the man in my castle, king of my hill,

but the spiders sit above me, hiding their will.

Night comes again and I slink into bed,

reminiscing and planning for a few days ahead.

From their webs they come down, crawling in droves,

but my eyes cannot see, for I am dreaming of groves.

They descend and tickle my skin with their legs,

my body jumps, shaking the bed from its pegs.

Jolted I wake, feeling and reaching to fight,

but the spiders have scurried off, giggling in the night.

It’s only the bites they leave, oozing and blue,

that makes me realize what I am to do.

Tis your webs of deceit, and your sharp little teeth,

that wrap around my soul and puncture my meat.

I shall wait silent in the night, looking for thine,

evil fucking spiders, your sins are now mine.

Do I live among the spiders,

or do the spiders live with me?

I’m still not entirely sure,

but killing you was curing to me.

Instaration #5

Her back to stone,
Her legs to roots,
She saw the heavens,
And turned to mute.
She felt the stars,
Caressed the light,
She rode the silence,
And began the fight.

Go Child! (Instaration #4)

Go child!

Open the door, throw your weight,

Into the Sun, out of the Night.

The morning will break, the dusk still looms.

Run! Yes, run!

Towards the day and out of your room!

Mr. GOODBYE

What does it mean to be liked? To be followed?

It seems a racket now, doesn’t it?

Someone likes your work, they give you a follow. You check their page, enjoy their work, and give them a follow back. Then the next day, they’re gone. It’s all the numbers game. Make sure you have more followers than people you follow. Add an army’s worth of people a day in hopes they will add you back, then unfollow them all, and hope some of them stick around just to add up your numbers. Is anyone even reading each other’s work? Care about the art?

The pages seem to be the same recycled 7 word meme-shares: love, rain, strong, better, heart, ocean, pain.

The generation of instant gratification has erased the ideal of patience, of waiting for something good to come along, and in taking the time to enjoy something longer and more fulfilling. If it can’t be read in big bold short words while scrolling by, it can’t be worth all that time, can it? If it can’t be swiped left or right, double-tapped, and passed on, did you really write it?

Luckily, the soldiers of he word are strong, the soldiers like you. The people who trudge on through the slop of buzz words and “Hang in there, baby” cat posters and gifs of dogs falling in to mounds of snow. You write because words are warriors. They cut through the blackthorns of mediocrity and sail across the seas.

Has this affected how you write in this new social world?

The emergence of instant gratification meme poetry and daily motivations, what are your thoughts?

You are transparent in your need,

taking time to show your feed.

You follow and like and show your cards,

y’all don’t need fans, you need to be starred.

The words you string are not your own.

The ideas, the memories, the long-lost loves,

are his, and hers, and they’s, to loan.

Like the journey of The Fool,

they are ancient too,

why slap your name on it,

telling me it’s something new?

When you’re in it for the numbers,

the digits climb and raise you high,

to the mantle of poor ole forgettable Mr. Goodbye.

Instaration #3

Footsteps so familiar come to pass,

Same time, same day, an unending flash.

The day turns night, night to dawn,

But no way out can be found.

Hedgerows neat and coated with dew,

Lock me in from the world anew.

I cannot be seen until he sees fit,

My cage is love and he’s quite a twit.

A writers lunch – 1 hour

Reading what you’ve written – 20 minutes

Figuring out where to start – 40 minutes

Writing – 4 paragraphs – 2 Hours

Feeling like you’ve written an epic war novel and watch Netflix – 5 hours

Daydream in bed about what you’re going to write tomorrow. – 2 hours

(I just wasted 20 minutes on this.)

Tag: poems