everything fun flies
upside-down in the face of
all things without wings

oversized diamonds
luminous—clumsy finger’s
enemy cut loose

if we look at the future
like we look at the past—

heads cocked in confusion,

disappointed disillusion
glazing gloomy eyes,
watering down wistful sighs

that might have been
but aren’t—

we wear fog all around 
and inside
our striped grey polos,

clean, but not quite dry
from wringing out

yesterday’s laundry

why so sad, little muffin?

ringlets forlorn, ruffles flat 

cinnamon eyes wrinkled

like hypnotized raisins

winter napping

wheat cheeks stitched

for laughing—seamless 

cream-cheese lilies 

buried in buttermilk snow

where did your sprinkles

go, little muffin?

 
This song by the Decemberists is on the movie soundtrack. They are an “Oregon folk rock band”; have you heard of them?

I really wish I had some king cake.

So … about tomorrow. Is Lent a meaningful season for you? Or do you just use it as a misspelling of “lint”?

This one is super sweet and makes me wish I had a friend with whom I could frolic in the snow and pick flowers. I’m reminded of a few long-distance friends I owe a phone call; perhaps my girlhood friendship dreams will all come true when I next see them.

I miss my treehouse. My dad built it for me when I was little, but now I’m not and my childhood home no longer exists, nor does my treehouse—my home away from home. What is “home” anyway but a safe place to hide from bad weather and wild animals? My dad would like to be home and not in the hospital. My toddler would like to stop throwing up. We all want something we can’t have, like sanity or silence. But we settle for watching music videos, writing poems, and eating chocolate.

“Language Desertion”

wayward prints and tread
below, phonetic light glows
overhead—lonely

dream in sepia,
mind pixelated in pink
flash-fog fantasy

* pixelated: pertaining to a printed image which has been digitized; visible as a pattern of pixels; bewildered, confused; slightly insane

written for The Sunday Challenge at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads (photograph taken by Mary Ann Potter)

“Descriptive Haze”

reading lengthy lines of poetry
is a blurred

                                  for me
                      climb
          uphill  

blinded by a storm of ADD
snow, no rope or lift to raise

my glazed-over lids

skiing eyes clumsily stumble
down 
    steep
       word
           cliffs

fumbling and running into trees
of confusion

I wonder,
have you seen 
the bunny slope for reading poems? 
  
 

“Visual Clarity”

crisp, concise skies burst
with imagery, ice, and snow
I can maneuver

written for Poetics based on two photographs taken by Reena Walkling at Missing Moments

          me

                                                     you

          just two types of minds
          out there floating; seems 
          only one is 

          me
                         all the rest 
                                                     you

          close the gap you can’t see 
          I can without the mmmm 
          I can 

                                                       be 
                                                     you

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 

* written for Free-Write Friday, with the prompt being “only two kinds of people in the world”

I don’t recall being small 
or making wishes.

But the dandelion wisps
I blew
grew into daughters
who will
have memories.

My small hands
do recall a few things,
like catching fire
flies. 

I left them in Texas
with my extra set of
keys
and the rest of my

family. They also forget 
everything

except the beauty

of blue
bonnets.

spooned by fullness,
I tremble

smocked in sweat,
crumbs, and
remembrance—
slaps and caresses
of snipped
mental replay

ambushed
by burbling thoughts,
I curl up and filter myself 

                until silt 
          settles
     down 

in an angry rhubarb river

raging love-blood in flux
quashed by quiet soothing
breeze

blind and folded
I lap some milk,
purr myself to sleep

sweet calico kitten

linked to dverse poets “Open Link Night“

written for Monday Melting Week 6; click the link to check out this week’s word prompt

That reminds me of the time we puppy-sat for a boy in our youth group; he named his sweet little blonde puppy after Ani Difranco.

Enjoy.

I used a random word-generator to choose this week’s words. I’ve been using a thesaurus and/or dictionary the past few weeks. Which do you prefer based on your recollection of the different lists?

I got crazy and made two lists of words again. I was thinking I’d save one for next week, but I can’t wait. So take your pick of the lists/words below. Feel free to mix and match.

List 1
fullness
influx
trifling
smock
blindfold
stillborn
quash
chime
spoon
tremble

List 2
endemic
slap
snip
crumbs
meow
rhubarb
zenith
silt
burbling
ambush

“Beauty is our weapon against nature; by it we make objects, giving them limit, symmetry, proportion. Beauty halts and freezes the melting flux of nature.”  ~Camille Paglia

 
source

source

source

source

source

source

listen to this; it’ll ”funk up” your day

french-vanilla splash
pool of espresso God-shot
angels diving in

God-shot: the ultimate espresso—a singular experience that is so incredibly heavenly, it seems only God could have done the blending

written for magpie tales #104 using the above photo prompt

The last line was originally “angels dipped in skin.” Although it means something, it creates too much contrast with the beverage theme. I’ll come up with a way to use that awesome line later. Don’t steal it.

blooming or bare, bark’s 
fairest beauty rests inside—
wisdom of ages

Not my bathroom. Not my art.

“Breathtaking” (original haiku/senryu formatting)

plush pillow skin, pale—
winter peach ripe for drizzling;
lash-clap hypnosis

elapsed bedlam hush
injected, hysteria
suspended—air-strung

by reptilian ropes,
paternal, knotted neck-tie
yokes doused in heptane

resin, burn-rushing
shame; interruption voided,
skin ash dirt returned

“Breathtaking” (revised line breaks/spacing)

plush pillow skin,
pale—winter peach
ripe
for drizzling

lash-clap hypnosis

elapsed bedlam hush

injected, hysteria
suspended—air-strung

by reptilian ropes,
paternal,
knotted neck-tie
yokes

doused in heptane resin,
burn-rushing shame

interruption voided,
skin ash
dirt returned

linked to “Open-Link Night” at dverse poets

written for this week’s Monday Melting using most of the following prompted words: hysteria, elapse, lash, resin, bedlam, douse, plush, peach, hush, drizzle, reptile, hypnotize, rectify, bevel (deleted/changed the last two while editing) … this “poetic story” is based on the movie Girl, Interrupted; it’s kind of mixture of two characters, along with a bit of fabrication … it could still use some massaging, so let me know if you see anything that doesn’t work

“Like a piece of ice on a hot stove, the poem must ride on its own melting.” ~Robert Frost

This week’s challenge is to submit an original poem using any or all of the words listed below. If you don’t have time to write a new poem, feel free to link an older piece that includes at least one of the words from the list. (I gave you a few extra words to choose from this time.)

1) hysteria
2) elapse
3) lash
4) resin
5) bedlam
6) douse
7) plush
8) peach
9) hush
10) drizzle
11) reptile
12) hypnotize
13) rectify
14) bevel

After posting your poem on your own blog (including a link back to this post so that others can join in on all the fun), click the “Mister Linky” button at the bottom of this post and add your name and URL. Since the prompt will be open all week, remember to come back periodically to read new poems that have been submitted.

“A poet is someone who stands outside in the rain hoping to be struck by lightning.”  ~James Dickey

I just bought a new book of short stories written by Robert Olen Butler (Pulitzer Prize winner). And the (second) best part is that the book only cost a dollar. The very best part is that it’s about decapitation. 

You may think the topic insane, but I can’t wait to read this book. The stories are each 240 words in length and are based on the following principles:

“After decapitation, the human head is believed to remain in a state of consciousness for one and one-half minutes.”

“In a heightened state of emotion, people speak at the rate of 160 words per minute.”

Each story captures the rampant thoughts running through a character’s mind just after being decapitated. Some of the beheaded “writers” include Medusa, Anne Boleyn, and the author of the book. … I’ll let you know if it’s any good.

“Heart, Protected”

fingertips rubbed square breaking 
through their concrete grave

exalted heart secured, removed
from body

lifted high, a triangular treasure
bleeds rubies and red petals—

carnivorous roses—Fletcher’s 

rutile arrows nestled at the feet
of Eda’s guardian hands

written for Magpie Tales #103 using the above photo prompt

“Silent Black”

Heavy and old, darkness
drapes inward

taking a vow of silence—

its hushed mouth pulled closed
by dusk hands on tan cords.

Roadside groans are its
illusionary voices, humming

to soothe night’s cimmerian 
woe—

a sorrow
wept 

in the folds of black’s curtain.

written for “The Object Is Poetics” at dverse poets; the “object” I chose is darkness (as in the falling of night) … I don’t think darkness speaks. Its “illusionary voices” are night sounds made by animals, cars, weather, etc. But it’s so quiet and “heavy” that it must be sad.