"Life is the dancer and you are the dance."
Eckhart Tolle

Saturday, April 30, 2011

"If We Fall Off Center" NaPoWriMo #30-What’s at the center and Write a poem in which the wheels (of a ____) fall off-Big Tent Prompts

Brilliance is centered thinking,
like a stone sparkling in sunlight; 
outer edges reach marrow
There is an exit from the
tunnel leading you to everywhere with anyone
who will wrap their arms around you in the rain,
comforting like an essence of fruition 
until the pivots quit working; wheels
fall in the dirt - lifeless, 
an indication that manufacturing had some serious flaws
They never really cared,
only wanted to play a game of exaction
Resilient, you jump back on the spokes,
teetering your way home
to re-engage your domination while attempting
to adhere with the world surrounding you

* I want to thank everyone who has been with me
on this wonderful, yet exhausting, poem a day journey. 
I'm completely awed by the talent out in this sometimes
perplexing, but always amazing, world we live in.

Friday, April 29, 2011

Portrait of a Sociopath or Who Misplaced Those Jars? NaPoWriMo #29-mason jars

Placing fireflies
inside mason jars;
they’ve been scattered everywhere
Time has ceased when lights go out;
you’re in need of some guidance …
A specific jar tucked under your bed is accumulating dust
when night folds in;
reach for them to light your path,
looking for intermittent brilliance to illuminate pathways
Electricity in the air moves objects round like silver leaves,
swirling in rhythm as they bend to follow …
trusting fireflies will lead you in darkness,
bringing you back resplendent

Thursday, April 28, 2011

What Happened to the Sun? NaPoWriMo #28-Big Tent Prompt-Write a poem about a bad idea

Amidst the worst
responses put forth
as doors swing from both directions,
is blue,
is red
It was a bad idea to believe
fish could live out of water
or that we could submerge ourselves
into water ill equipped to
sustain our breathing
Raunchiness of animosity …
reckless, rude, riotous,
developed in a vicious mind or when
you woke up on the wrong side of the rising sun and
can’t float on papier-mache cutouts …
if I’m drowning in a pool of mud
that’s breached a portal and
seeped in many different directions

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

"Could Be a Problem" #27-Big Tent Prompt-a predicament

In a quandary you sit upon a picket fence;
splinters stick in your thighs …
it’s a Catch-22 sliding bones between
two sheets of paper
turning yellow and brittle as time advances
in a quagmire, all bramble and rose thorns
ceasing to be vainglorious
It’s emotion in voice; let
those who fall gingerly envelop words
with feelings cultivated over years,
else slip into silence

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

"Hidden Meanings" NaPoWriMo #26

Beautiful nymphs on your shoulders,
quill with inkwell scribbling names:
one for honey, one for flowers and
angels that fly through the air … or
unexpected visitors who wait
for us in the extensions of “Arcadia”
You gave her a name that whispered
the Clutharachán meala or 
Like roaming hillsides that puff up
in the sun to meet the sky,
as resilient as a road filled with high mallow
when spherical objects try to flatten it; 
it’s buoyant, rises back
A deep breath in the wind clears obstructed air,
we try to envisage why we’re given our names

* A prompt from "Poets & Writers"
Write a poem that explores how you were named and the meaning of your name, include at least one bold lie:
Pamela was a poetic invention from the 16th century.
The name was invented in the late 16th century by, the poet Sir Philip Sidney for use in his poem 'Arcadia’.
Clutharachán meala translates to "Honey Elf" in Gaelic.
Sadhbh translates to Pamela in Irish Gaelic (or so they say).

Monday, April 25, 2011

"He Sells Pinwheels" #25-NaPoWriMo-Wordle from Brenda W

He doesn’t have a piquant exterior,
plaid waistcoat hangs on a
diminished frame hiding hideous tattoos
of a life lived on the lam
Mothers in the park squeeze
their children’s hands,
walking a bit quicker while passing him,
trying not to steal a glance
He always feels a sharp stab to his being,
though he tries to pretend it isn’t happening
At the end of the day a cheap bottle of wine
does some quenching and replenishes his nerve
to return to his spot holding pinwheels
in his grey hands … fragile as tissue paper
They call him the Eternal Creep,
 and that is how he spends his days

*these words didn't conjure up the loveliest images for me ... sorry 

Sunday, April 24, 2011

"Fairy Tales" NaPoWriMo #24-Big Tent Prompt-Escape

Cinderella stories perpetually
don’t have happy endings
Locked inside your wooden box,
walls were sturdy, but too constraining

My gown and glass slippers never fit quite right,
something stifling about them, a bit askew as
seams began to split, glass started to breach
Your lies were clever, concealing them for last
I was gulled or merely naive
I found a small opening to peer out through

Prince Charming serves wonders in fairytale scripts
My thoughts were lace-filled gaps I tried to stitch together,
ruffles were roller coaster rides sending me to the bray

I found a loose board one day while you weren’t watching
and drew a map with beautiful configurations,
landscapes only prevailing in my mind,
a view you tried to barricade

Finally I walked away, not a simple chore,
my hands stuffed deep inside my pockets
Now I take my words, throw
them where I may, where I go
Occasionally we pay for our freedom

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Awaiting Your Song NaPoWriMo #23-Syllabic 1-12-1

ringed in
yellow, black
plume, you prepare
a nest, twigs and mud,
cavernous home, gather
earthworms, berries and fruits for
you and for your young, a song that
vibrates trees, Turdus Merula knocks
on thresholds, a migratory friend wants
entrance, keepsake of nesting literary
fondness staying year round in Paris … temperate
suits you best, we wait for wings to carry you
back when spring returns, Turdus Merula,
I listen for your song to move the
leaves, an object of affection
as I write these words, always
welcome are your visits
as we meet again,
can you see me,
as I

Friday, April 22, 2011

"Left for Love and Right for Spite" NaPoWriMo #22-Write a poem that uses a pearl of wisdom or wives' tale as its title

In Valhalla,
protecting herself with a blue bead
on a silver string, alternating cycles,
strands of amber spherule, ingesting
them on off days before 
she lights ivory candles in a file;
each one blows out … malevolent presence.
There’s a clover patch outside infinity
fairies tend to it every day,
bringing her batches of 
emerald blessings.   
Balder the Beautiful,
god of joy and gladness,
sits in an armchair amidst confusion;
mistletoe-tipped arrows
fly precisely through the air. 
Death ensues as
earth turns dark, stars have
closed their eyes.
She mourns.

*Balder the Beautiful is a Norse myth about Friday the 13th.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

"Run My Hands Along The River" NaPoWriMo #21

I’m unlike all the rest who scatter for empathy

It rises high in shafts from where I seek its comfort
from coming rain, resting easy on strands of
brilliant stars bursting before me

Long-distance on the wire makes a room
turn pitch black, plastic smells like death
cradled in my hands, everything collapses
into haze as I exist in between

I extracted heinous expressions from my brain,
resolving that it would never affect me in the future

When I opened my eyes catching pinpoints paralleled
with visual stimuli, realizing it was the first time I was paying
attention to what encompassed me

Wrapped in a blanket of joy, a new life awaiting
nourishment of what’s in the world,
your smiles lit my way

I remember everything  

Music in words filling days and dreams,
looking at an evolving sky,
watching colours as sunsets change how I feel 

* A prompt by Marty McConnell that she references in this interview in http://muzzlemagazine.com 

Here's what Donna Vorreyer did with the prompt:


Donna also provides interesting Saturday prompts;  visit her site.

Prompt: (stanza 1) tell us what you are not (stanza 2) say where the light comes from (stanza 3) give three details about the hardest year of your life (stanza 4) tell a lie about who you are (stanza 5) tell us something you remember involving light (stanza 6) share a good memory (stanza 7) admit to the lie (stanza eight) describe an object that exemplifies who/what you are.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

"Dreams of Forever" NaPoWriMo #20-Wordle from Brenda @ Beyond the Bozone

Recall days of spilt perfume on silver trays,
fragrances hung in the mood
as shattered dreams hit a crescendo
She believed in forever like sprouting angel wings
carrying messages of flattery and love …
reality’s recollection of crude phrases accompanying
inept attitudes, she recounts how many scars were
left behind from living in a fantasy

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

"Truly Asphyxiating" NaPoWriMo #19-color

Feeling you wrap round me, chartreuse
tentacles long, suffocating, pervading,
trying to draw me under chartreuse film,
observing my actions, scrutinizing me
Chartreuse liquid green substance,
your presence is asphyxiating,
nothing pleasurable regarding chartreuse …
you’re like a shroud over my existence,
glib gestures like slime pooling beneath my feet,
chartreuse mist eclipsing my expanse where I breathe
So many other colours in my spectrum …
yet chartreuse lingers for hours


Monday, April 18, 2011

Black Hexadecimals #18-NaPoWriMo - A Portrait Poem

If I were to paint your portrait
beginning with a 9B Derwert
sure to contour asymmetric lines
so they lift up off the canvas
showing how delineation
sometimes exists in perspective 
I’d apply my brushstrokes
vigorously, making broken combinations
similar to ones inside your ambiguity  

No child’s watercolour could be utilized,
much too innocent for this painting,
to reveal the murkiness
residing within your structure; 
pastels are too light and airy for portrayal

alkyds work well when attempting to
convey darkness held inward
withstanding years in passing

Subsequently setting you out
in lightning with teeming rain …
watching you warp in its frame

Sunday, April 17, 2011

"Jasmine" NaPoWriMo #17

My tabby
cat sleeps by my side
Whiskers twitch
with each dream
On a chaise lounge in the sun
watching birds fly by

*a shadorma

Saturday, April 16, 2011

"A New Life" NaPoWriMo #16-Napo Old Photo Prompt #12

 By Dorothea Lange

Voices through the dust clog senses as
nine little devils dance round your room
bringing you drought
Go to the plow they’re hanging about …

A dream was waiting, Old Sunny Cal is calling
“The Mother Road’s” anticipation singing her tune
San Joaquin Valley is a belly of refugees
working the land hard …
harvesting cotton,
lemons, oranges,
a transient life, moving
Flyers declared abundance
Reality’s prejudice, abuse, deplorable conditions …
like grime under your nails it wouldn’t come clean
While you slept in Ditchbank camps,
sadness bled into bones;
the sun was no refuge for pain
Your child’s cry from hunger became creases in your face …
chimera behind those eyes

Friday, April 15, 2011

"The Sisters" NaPoWriMo #15/ Big Tent Prompt-7. Write a poem that starts, “Legend says ______.”

Legend says …
Maria’s children followed her to a rising river
Now she cries in the night,
"O-h-h-h, my children!"
La Llorona circling in the darkness,
weeping against the sky,
wandering alone for eternity …
sapphire tears fall from the heavens
Searching for the children,
her resonance is all around me

La Bruja, nocturnal raptor,
owl eyes, strong sleek wings …
how bewitching it is to fly
Searching for souls
lifts you to mountain tops
She chokes you with kisses
while you plead “don’t leave me lifeless”
She returns you to the arms of your sister …
do you still love me beautiful Llorona?

When darkness comes she’ll be hidden in shadows;
you can hear her grievous cry as owls fly overhead

 Latin American legends:
“La Bruja Lechuza” is a Mexican legend. She is a witch who comes to a house in the form of a giant owl-type bird, to take away someone who is close to death.

“La Llorona” translates to “The Weeping Woman”
Here's a link about her:

Thursday, April 14, 2011

"Burning Ice" NaPoWriMo #14-Big Tent Prompt-Write an ode to a thing you love in nature.

Erose is the art of ice …
barren wilderness, no trees …
Antarctic environment’s glassy surface.
Caribou slowly walk, their hooves
pressing into frozen land,
split lines following them to valleys below as
the sun is embedding on glaciers a sense of
time and space; landscapes are vanishing.
Seals with their pups lay on
its melting base in
unsettling atmospheric change.
Hold a cord against strong winds; there’s
intimate music to be heard while
earth’s warmth increases;
thawing evolves into
burning ice.
Plankton measurements decreasing
in a triangle of nature
as tear shaped chunks slide away …
a mournful crash hits a frigid sea.
Contraposition to how I feel while watching the scene …
I retrieve a floating remnant.
Crackling bubble sounds held in my hand …
hoping to preserve a piece of nature’s sculpture.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

"Bad Storms" NaPoWriMo #13-a partial smorgasbord

White light has hit a Cerulean skyline as pomegranates
have fallen from bare-leafed trees,
splitting open, revealing seeds in the rain, beads of water
slide away in a disarmingly uniform fashion.
Thompson Farms has come to collect wooden crates filled to crest. 
The weather was taking a hard turn that year.
Actually, not much has changed.
Practically nothing more for me to do
but watch TV advertisements.
Marketing strategy is so different these days.
Monopoly is good on afternoons like this. 

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

"Empty" NaPoWriMo #12-a mirror poem

Your dubious optimism eased cynical crowds.
Enemies never scoffed at your selfless behavior.
Wholly compassionate, something on your mind required perfect words.
Talking incessantly while gripping everyone’s attention.
Your life was petaled, parted rosiness.
Always enough time because you understood every corner of a curve.
Freedom can be buried deep into wet terrain.
Nothing is undesired, it died in your death.
Disapproving hatred exists in silence
as grotesque puppets have left the realm
in painless, unravished emptiness.
Unimaginatively you’ve released me
with uncertain indifference outside a silent field
where souls touch interiors of another’s scorn
to smooth out their jagged edges.
Your loveless stereotypical course is inconsistent,
beneath everything which will never assure me of its resolve.

Process notes:
I chose Paul Eluard's "At The Window", which was a challenge to mirror.


Monday, April 11, 2011

"Shirt Pocket Words" NaPoWriMo #11-Wordle from "Beyond the Bozone"

 If the Eiffel tower is viewed from below on a gloomy day
then I’d rather be looking at the Taj Mahal,
but if blind we cannot see the cobwebs.
It’s a feeble influence felt between fingertips smooth or rough
that makes me laugh at dandelions in the yard.
Detecting what is essential to embrace my sensibilities, 
so as not to lose my corrugated mind in flurry without words.
Collection of phrases in my shirt pocket along with ash
haven’t yet made a journey for their destiny.
Scrambling triumphs are turns around
pages of dreamy thoughts that hum when words keep
pushing and shoving like a street brawl I haven’t witnessed yet.

Thanks for the wordle Brenda!
* used all except: hovels

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Mr. Corruption NaPoWriMo #10-write it backwards napowrimo prompt

A revolution exists within itself,
turmoil of push and draw.
Exporting more substance to feed
corrugated sludge that lays a plague
on the surface of your youth.
Supplies of metal-sheathed armaments
can be used in case of disagreement
over whose turf is whose,
to turn away leads with its blind gaze.

Continued prey upon less fortunates,
sleeping in hovels,
cultivating your monetary harvest in a sweltering sun,
dreams of everything you have,
humbled by your shiny new cars and fancy gadgets,
while wearing torn clothes,
letting sweat seep from their pores, stains won’t leave.

As air-conditioners hum,
the fat man lines his pockets
with freshly sheared wool, quite a bounty.
His daughter wasn’t murdered;
left in a desert sun to decompose …
vultures picking meat from her bones.

But you’ve got your power lunches,
Starbuck’s daily featured latte,
Chai tea, syrupy sweetness
clings to the interior of your mouth.

I don’t miss what has not existed for a while.
A kiss on the cheek or friendly smile is crucial to me now
“When disposition wins us, the features please.”

Ovid (BC 43-AD 18) Roman poet.

Saturday, April 9, 2011

"Huajuapan de Leon" NaPoWriMo #9-Write about when you don’t feel like yourself

A crowded market where spices
permeate air, hanging heavy on my senses
Lightheaded from apparent motion,
strange languages surround me,
unknown dialects from outlying sierras 
Uncomfortable … I don’t understand what is said,
yet I am fascinated, even if I am anxious
Traditional clothing, patterns I don’t recognize
Dark hair and tanned skin, I stand out like a pale bleached sun
I’m out of place, I try to get in touch with my internal rhyme to
guide me through this uncertain time, entering
into a realm between what is real or imagined
Catching a glimpse of myself as I pass a mirror,
startled by its reflection … light hair, pale skin, blue eyes,
different …

Friday, April 8, 2011

"Windows Change Lives" NaPoWriMo #8 - a broken window

Impact of his fist shattered at the door,
too young to comprehend what was going on,
a locked entrance he couldn’t get through,
fear of being left outside alone

It’s perceivable though I wasn’t there
to witness cut veins pouring their lineage
onto concrete slabs, coagulating at his feet

What lies on the other side,
thinking comfort or love was waiting,
only to be left
disappointed, scared

Stitches, fine filament, stop bleeding, 
wounds heal leaving scars
to build a fortress of splintered slivers,
holding edges delicately together

Nightmares in daytime
Nighttime, it’s impossible to rest 
Inconceivable to tear down
what happened when his fist
went through
the glass

Process notes:
This is a true story about someone close to me.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Some News Poets United Thursday Think Tank #43-Headlines

One grave held 43 bodies,
shallow tufts of earth covering them
Drug cartel to the northwest

6.5 magnitude earthquake
in the state of Veracruz,
power plants didn’t fall like dominoes
Tremors to the northeast

I’m just sitting here, while Popo smokes every day

Process notes:
Popocatepetl is an active volcano, I live between two volcanoes.
Yesterday in news I heard about execution-style murders in Cuernavaca, Morelos, and in the middle of the night, an earthquake struck Veracruz. Cuernavaca and Veracruz are two hours from my home. Oh, yeah, I feel real safe.

Purple NaPoWriMo #7 - Use a colour as your title

Royal insists on servitude, bowing heads with bleeding arcs,
where fine promenades fill halls, masks are worn away
Sequined thoughts no longer shine from
unclear memory, but if I dust it off
I could remember, though I prefer its loss.
There’s a safety in not recalling lousy incidents; it’s comforting.
While gleeful others relish in one’s misfortune … as 
royal purpleness is forever satisfied with this design.
To swim in different directions, our lives are
floating in an unsynchronized fashion that’s
crisscrossing now and then … 
believing it takes great restraint,
pretending we are somewhere that we’re not.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Fire Out of Control #48 The Art of Making Fire

Highways have collapsed underfoot,
seeping in creases of despair,
combustible gases release into
surrounding air

It’s the art of containing misery,
formulated from one’s own frenzy,
as if releasing drops of water
would extinguish coals’ bright-coloured hues

The hole is a grandeur of burnt
elements singeing skin,
harming the inner-self whenever
it’s out of control

Fire, heat becomes overwhelming,
suffocating, drowning it won’t recede
from incessant strokes of oxygen
All that’s left
are charred remains

"Daylight Enters the Room" NaPoWriMo #6

Patterns outlined in the frame, holding
sight of the world in lightness or obscurity
Brightness seldom enters in this muskiness
Cords are connected reverently or relinquished

Metal’s edge folds in on itself,
sharpness is seamed and vivid
Perpendicular lines cross each other,
concluding to exclude the surrounding world
Silver ships get lost in the nighttime,
smooth surface, its tilt moves upward
Vertical is a horizontal, raised as it lowers and looms …
a crone’s eye that peers in between

I believe she’s watching or concealing all I do 

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

"Warmth" One Shot Wednesday #40

a French
across the street
scents linger
for some

there are
still sweet perfume
held in

I recently saw a fellow poet use this form and decided to give it a whirl.

Thanks for the inspiration, Marianne.  If you would like read some lovely
Septolets visit her site:   http://herwordsbloomed.blogspot.com/

Marianne said:

PS - When I write septolets, the form is slightly different. I found the form here:

The Septolet is a poem consisting of seven lines containing fourteen words with a break in between the two parts. Both parts deal with the same thought and create a picture.
•Fourteen words
•Seven lines
•Two related stanzas
•Create an image or picture

(seems I missed that 14 words instruction, yikes!)
 Thanks Marianne

"Motels made of Feathers" NaPoWriMo #5

A perfect line is drawn
between fine edges with details.
High-rise images are six inch heels
where kittens don’t venture
without boas wrapping around them tightly.
It’s a pump that sucks life from you
as it returns fetid, rancid or abused air.
Spikes lay at your bedpost,
fans are scattered all about
florets burrow holes in your chest cavity,
soaking up time, furnishing blood through crude canals.

I am watching from a distant corner
where feather-foil lays on stilettos,
crushed underfoot and worn into the carpet
with cigarette burns left behind,
like the trash strewn about in your life.
They have taken out all air conditioning units, 
replacing them with old dusty golden coins
to be deposited at a local arcade resting easy …
no-one will ever win a trophy.

Process notes:
Write about feathers and stilettos (but no person can be wearing them).

Before moving South of the Border, I thought that there was no difference between a motel and a hotel, except the latter being fancier and more expensive. So when we stopped to spend the night at a motel in the northern part of Mexico, my husband explained the difference. I am sure the proprietor was grateful for our money, generally the rooms are rented by the hour. This poem came to fruition from that experience, the room though clean and tidy, it had an underlying film that existed, unexplainable, it was simply there.

Monday, April 4, 2011

"A Fish, A Fly" - Wordle from Beyond the Bozone - napowrimo 4.1

 Preconceptions affect prodigious fish
swimming in a clear pond,
they’ve become omnipotent
as a fly buzzes round the pool,
where speckles on your supercilious head
cause much agitation,
like those unexpected docile journeys
when serendipitous thoughts
seem to occupy a harried yet fallow mind

"Waterfalls and How I'll Die" NaPoWriMo #4

In the morning at sunrise in Iguazu Falls
I’ll die as water rushes down on me,
taking away my breath, filling my lungs.
Tourists will be watching, snapping Polaroids.

On an Argentinian morning I’ll watch myself
in the beautiful falls that engulf my being.
Music will be playing as I tango without
a partner, my shoes well-crafted and fanciful.

My moves will be graceful as I motion for the
waterfall to wrap its shimmering shape around
my ankles and pull me in for one last time …
while an artist paints a picture of the falls.

Napowrimo prompt #3:
Here’s a third prompt for those of you who like to get ahead of the curve. This one is adapted from Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones, a book my parents gave me when I was 14 or so and they noticed I was constantly scribbling things down. So here goes: Cesar Vallejo wrote a pretty famous poem that begins with him saying that he will die in Paris, in the rain, on a Thursday (different translations from the Spanish make it hard to quote precisely in English). So go ahead and write a poem predicting your own death — at night in Omaha at the Shell Station, in an underwater Mexican grotto after a dry spell. It’s less morbid than you think!

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Brenda @ Beyond the Bozone is offering a Wordle

Brenda says:

Wordle prompt for your use

Here's a Wordle created from Sylvia Plath's Mirror, Emily Dickinson's The Railway Train, and a piece I wrote after reading those two pieces. Four words from each piece made the wordle. If anyone wants a prompt, give this wordle a whirl. I'll post a piece tomorrow, and would love to see you give it a try! If you use the wordle, link it here, or in tomorrow's Bozone post.

Go check it out!

"Private Patio" NaPoWriMo #3-Getting undressed somewhere besides the bedroom or bathroom

 Camino-Real Hotel, Puebla, Puebla

Taking away intricate layers draping me …
lace and cotton conforms to every move,
perspiration holds them closely,
submerged in its saltiness. 
In a Spanish-style patio,
ferns at my elbows brushing gently on my skin,
geraniums and marigolds bend, weeping with lightness.
Walls are prominent, I’m encapsulated by tiles,
I can feel coolness seep into my skin.
Talavera patterns, robust colours painted by endued hands,
glazed with a sheen to withstand the years,
I place my bare feet on them; a chill surges through me
but the sun warms my desolation.
A refreshing dip in the garden’s fountain …
hidden from the world’s view.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

"The Threat" NaPoWriMo #2

No-one could believe that you wanted to burn
the house down; jealousy and rage can send
someone that far away into such a fantastical position
when white wicker bedroom suites are no longer
smudged with lies hidden behind a façade
Drive by evenings with watchdog eyes spying
while plotting her demise
No-one would believe that you wanted to burn
the house down with family and pets sleeping
in their beds; envy and insecurity make a
person lose a grip on their reality … ludicrously odd
ideas take them over instead
Everyone was astonished when you decanted
gasoline and lit the match

Process notes:
4. Write about something that happened 15 years ago.
A Big Tent prompt.

Friday, April 1, 2011

"My Cat" Not Without Poetry-Prompt #1-no narrative

Never pray or practice imbalanced ramifications,
simply contemplate living from an over-stuffed easy chair
with its worn out tapestry,
while in the mind rolling thoughts surge
like waves that break hard against jagged rocks …
to lose the last breath of life on uncontemplated
mad hysteria as if lying in a hospital bed with no sheets,
where giant stone walls surround from uninvited eyes …
bloodshot pools of madness
My tabby left the flower garden
strutting on little padded feet, all the
while grinning and whistling
a tune about better friends out in the world
Companions come and go, leaving their mark behind
like Indian tattoos burnt into the skin
A trip to a local pet shop would replace you
But will I ever feel completely satisfied? I will miss
your grinning and whistling when the garden is quiet

"Cuban Cigars and Smoke" NaPoWriMo #1

Handing me a Cuban cigar
while holding a match to the tip,
I saw my reflection in its flame
My beret was feeling lopsided
as the sun shone in my eyes
Palms swayed like hula dancers
from faraway Hawaiian islands
His voice was firm and reassuring,
like the beat of a drum never out
of sync, while smoky fingers curled
round our heads, beckoning their release …
similar to lives that exist in oppression,
pushing them further away from reality’s
happiness … paint peeling slowly off
the wall behind him, layers underneath become
more complex as he looks at the crowd below us