lost, boys and girls, lost.

Karin Gustafson is prompting us tonight at Real Toads with A glance at narrative
So, here’s your task for the prompt.  Simply think of some story in writing your poem–it could be the story of a moment or of a lifetime–and it need not be fully detailed.  The poem may offer a bird’s eye view of the story or the small close-up of a magnifying glass, maybe just a sidelong glimpse.  (It does not have to be a story of human beings; it could be the story of a rock or a raindrop.)
And, I repeat!–the story does not need to be told in full (unless you really do have a ballad in mind!)

Though, honestly, it would be great to distill your piece, keep it compressed, since we are writing poems or prose poems, and not full short stories.  (Keeping something short is very hard so I’m not setting a word or line limit–only posing the challenge.)

portal’s closed tight

lost we are

harsh reality

shrouds being

and swamps hope

shouting

‘boys no more’

 

Magic dust junkie Tink

bats mascara-soiled blinks

empty

simpering

searching desperately

anything for a hit baby

anything

 

Pan is no good

no God

engulfed now

shadow un-sewn

swallowed hole

flightless no-bones

grounded by the weight of it

 

ever has fallen

dreams eviscerate now

bursting hopes bubble

(in the deep green)

shivers wrestle violently

and the voiceless howl

never has fallen

 

opiate eyed humanity

dial set to mass extinction-

(mass won’t save you now)

fae tales tipped like ash from a spoon

settle on the lake of unconsciousness

Seppuku by hook is grim watching

The End

45 responses to “lost, boys and girls, lost.

  1. This ha a terribly grim but also terribly effective poem. Such sad but graphic imagery and tropes and a telling story told. Thanks for joining in and with this poem. K.

  2. I love the turn you’ve given this story. The suicide ending is fitting. Neverland has become our cities. Our heroes have turn to ghosts. Pink Floyd was more prophetic than they ever realized.

  3. This one squeezes at the tender bits of the heart, especially the ending… And as K suggests, the vivid imagery. They seem to screaming their purpose at the reader, making sure that the horror of their pain–their loss–is not overlooked. And it’s not.

  4. I like the reference to The Lost Boys – could be Peter Pan , could be the best ever vampire film – and there are some stunningly beautiful lines in this poem, Paul. I particularly love:
    ‘harsh reality
    shrouds being
    and swamps hope’;
    ‘flightless no-bones
    grounded by the weight of it;
    ‘bursting hopes bubble
    (in the deep green)
    shivers wrestle violently;
    and, my favourite:
    ‘fae tales tipped like ash from a spoon
    settle on the lake of unconsciousness’.

  5. Oh my — a powerful write indeed. And definitely from the other side of I Wonder. You know me Paul, I prefer the happiness side. But — there is no way we can ignore the plight of so many you mention here. And sadly, far too many think Neverland is reached through opiates rather than reality. A sad tale indeed….and sadder still when one realizes that many live their hell on earth.

    • Happiness is not really possible for a few though right? I’m not advocating misery but as you say a knowledge that things are what they are for people, for animals, for plants…for the world is essential right now.

  6. Misery and doom prevail. Scary. Towards the ending here we see all caused by opiate addictions.
    Personally, I have that addiction. Under control now but while on opiates the body wants to stay that way. If only there were an on/off switch.
    ..

  7. You made it a bit too real! No no, let me keep pretending … because I don’t know that there’s any better option, now.

  8. That *is* a grim end. I always want both Tink and Wendy to recognize and access their own power… while simultaneously understanding the pining for Peter and the lost boys… “no more boys” seems a hollow proclamation, and isn’t enough, in the end.

  9. This is grim watching and grim reading indeed! But we need the take a good hard look at the status quo – poets must jar the world back to its senses. (Or at least die trying)

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