Friday, June 23, 2017

Alto



The dead don't mind
if I sing off key
and seesaw their femurs to rollick along

to the beat
of a heart
bludgeoned and ceased,

but for the beauty
embalmed in my songs.

Bass clef cut -
my hands to start to treble
at all of the insides God's hidden away.
A score finally settled
and spread on my table.
A stillness, a movement,
a sheet to be played.

A little something for the Beautiful Freaks Fest

Thursday, June 22, 2017

Whatever Metafiction Gets You Through The Night

I cannot call you mine;
let me call you to the line
break -

I miss  you.

I miss you like a misplaced heart.
Like I'm an incomplete constellation
and the starless space of you is a scar.
I miss you         some other, better metaphor.

Every syllable of me is stressed.
My symbolism undressed.
All I have left
is naked longing.

Sonnets written for you.
Bitten from the neck for you.
Nocturnes, aubades,
couplets coupling in between.
And

this - this flawed
flowless piece of free verse
written by a poet
anything but free.

For Kerry's prompt at Real Toads

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Apostasy

In my wilderness, I met a woman
who knew God -
a genteel beauty who chased
the moon at night.
She was silver tongued
from eating ashes,
but I can't pray like that.

I met a man who'd wrestled
with the Devil.
Winning left him with a face
of wax.
He preached safety and salvation
outside the sun.
I can't live like that.

Last, I met a little girl
with a giggle.
She sugared suffering, but didn't claim
it sweet.
It was just the way she'd found
to get the hard stuff down.
Give me that.

I can pray to that.

I can live like that.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Monday, June 19, 2017

Pepper Spray Eyes

What I need now -
     pennies weighting your pepper spray eyes.
          Did I speak aloud?
Surely, not I.

This love is wrongs
     wrapped in placental shrouds throats
          clogged with feather down
tongues tied.

It's the dog at her dead master's feet
that gets buried alive.

A quadrille for Kim at dVerse

Sunday, June 18, 2017

Already Fallen

I've cancelled Spring

in favor of your Winter kiss.
Summer can't compare
to the heat we hold between us.

Autumn won't be needed.

I've already fallen.

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

My Husband's Laugh

My husband's laugh is the fingers
on a pair of mischievous hands

that sneak and stretch
across melancholy miles

to rub at my ribs
till I'm tickled.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Saturday, June 10, 2017

I Am Made Of

riddles and eyes that bloom with surprise
rebel yells in a liberal throat
naps in the shade of a sunflower
his scent
tangled in my hair

selfishness and sacrifice
woman's flesh on a mother's bones
years poured just to sip an hour
again
alone somewhere

the ache that constellates my nights
for the God I know or a God I don't
weak-(k)need for some higher power
ellipses in . . .
my prayers

For Magaly's prompt at Real Toads.

Note: This is my attempt at a rimas dissolutas.  I stole the idea from Rosemary.

Thursday, June 8, 2017

Queen of Cups

Image result for queen of cups

A well that never runs dry
no matter the heat of summer.
A clear creek's moonlit murmur.
A rain-on-the-window sigh.
She splits the stone of time
and wears its shards between her shoulders.
Should you be lucky and behold her,
sip from her cup and be wise!

For Words Count at Real Toads

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

Penance Post

I clicked on the social media priest
to confess that I was lonely.
He instructed me to sugar the crow
and eat before all that know me.

So I chalked my status one hundred times -
too damn complicated -
on the blackboard of the cybermind,
hoping you'd erase it.

The likes were coming thick and fast
from strangers and from friends -
all begging for an update -
how does the story end?

I refresh until the poor mouse squeaks
and my trigger finger aches.
I've done my penance post on facebook;
must I apologize to your face?

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads