She walks to the end
of dark uncurling days
at the edge of the earth,
witnesses the new day
split open–
petals soft,
beautiful.
She’d give it to herself
could it be contained,
arranged within some vase,
held within her hands,
that cannot hold
such flowering strength.
She breathes in hope,
taking it deep into her lungs
where oxygen mingles
with blood and becomes one—
a seed took root in the moment
as all things familiar to her die.
I am honored to be featured on braveandrecklessblog.com
At the kitchen table, My mother and I sat. Nothing new to discuss Silence covered us. Sometimes we glanced at each other. Mostly, we stared ahead Or …
Misty Remains – Annette Kalandros
I am honored to be featured on braveandrecklessblog.com
The tinge of sadness in your words
Told me you had stolenthese words
From another to whom you had
Given them then turned and gifted them
To me, and I—I pretended you had
Freshly written such lovely words for me,
Letting the ink of your stolen words
Blanket me, comfort me with something
I needed to feel— if only for a time—
The street huckster wraps her wares
In three day old newspapers to cushion
Them from breakage
And once home, I peeled the molding
Paper off my skin to find it stained
With the cheap ink of your stolen words
Soap, hot water, and good scrubbing
Wore all the stains away.
My skin refreshed and oiled,
I sigh heavily with pitynow
For you mustnot feel
Anything much that is real
Who must constantly steal
And steal away again your now
Cheapened wordsto give to one
And then another and…
View original post 98 more words
I have heard praises of all this autumnbling Yes, it is a feast of color, true. Yet, it seems this forest floor Littered with the wings Of carrion …
Autumnblings – Annette Kalandros
I’m honored to be featured on Braveandrecklessblog.com
The jigsaw puzzle of mercy
fell to pieces today.
The dogs saw it crumble,
alerting me before I could
gather, prepare, ready–
anything—
For this, this seeming simple thing.
The dogs ran, back hair bristled—
I ran after,
yelling, yanked their collars—
the dogs listened, stood back, panting.
All the construction of houses around us stopped
it seemed for a moment—
for a moment only us—
the four of us—
my two dogs, one on each side of me,
standing back, as they’d been told,
me, and the small bird now in my hands.
I had not stopped to grab anything—
no gloves, no towel—
had not thought of viruses, bacteria—
this bird was still alive—
limp, though nothing seemed broken,
yet its eyes wild.
I held it lightly,
thinking it stunned
it would surely fly off—
just stunned is all–I thought—
just a moment,
give it a moment, it would fly.
It had to fly.
By God, this ordinary grayish brown bird,
shaking, breathing hard in my hands, had to fly.
The bird closed its eyes—
It would not fly—
I knew it then—
I would have to gift it– mercy,
and so did what needed done—
Broke its neck in two.
No. No. It doesn’t help to know
I put an end to its suffering.
But I learned mercy makes for easy talk,
yet it is a suffering thing to do.
I am honored to be featured on BraveandRecklessblog.com
I entered life an accidental tourist.
My mother’s body served an eviction notice,
But I ignored it and burrowed deeper
Into placental warmth.
My twin, however, weaker,
Entered the world a clotted, bloody,
Gelatinous mess on the white tile
Of a bathroom floor.
The doctor told the man,
Who wasn’t really my father
But thought himself to be,
There was still a heartbeat,
Still a baby left.
I felt the absence of my twin,
the lack of another’s heart
beating a rhythm to match my own,
racing toward emergence, light, life, breath.
A ghost-like memory I carried with me
Always– Even when I, who survived
By claiming squatter’s right
To my mother’s uterus
As it tried to evict me
And who had never been told
Of my twin’s existence, would
Turn in childhood play and talk
To my twin sister.
My mother asking to whom I talked
And I answering—My…
View original post 212 more words
Questions hang in the air Like heavy coastal fog On cool autumn mornings Eternal questions of humanity: All the whys, the wonderings-- Never answered prayers-- Laying pressed between the Pages of a book like brown, Dried flowers—forgotten, Having lost their sentiment. Speak the differences Among roses, weeds, wildflowers— Inconsequential answers For inconsequential questions. Could sense of counting Out the hours be sliced Like blood, blooming meat To find truth absolute Like high priestesses of old, Scry the answer In a blood filled bowl?
Written for last year’s challenge when I still used my pen name.
So now we know, You told me I wasn’t, But I was— Your creation. Said you loved me Just the way I was— But was it true? Yes, I was perfect Just the …
Modern Prometheus becomes the Little Stranger – M.A. Morris
The widow colors the sky
The ground, the trees,
The winds with cold and heat
Of all that cannot be spoken,
Of spirits tethered to stone.
You may never know she is there.
She may wear the red nose.
She may laugh with you.
She may hold out her hands to help.
All so you are not overwhelmed by her presence.
She hides within her weeds.
Sometimes she hides within the willows.
She may smell of pomegranates
Or roses at midnight,
The scents betray her presence.
But you will not see her arms and hands
Covered in thorns and trickling with blood,
The tears of her body, dripping away,
Speaking in tongues no one can understand,
As she stands alone.
She sees history through a broken prism
Of her words never strong enough to bind
Love to prayers weighted with magic enough
To fly straight to God’s ear, to be heard,
To be answered, to raise flowers of miracles.
In the end, the widow is left,
Singing colors of grief.
When all the praise singers have left her
In the muddy soil leavings of wicked tongues,
Gone on to daily lives, the day to day,
The widow stands,
Singing colors of grief,
Covered in thorns.
I am honored to be featured on BraveandRecklessblog.com
That is me
I am of my own making.
Rather than ignore, pretend
A pretty sky for my façade—
I chose to make of myself,
A real thing, a living thing,
A patchwork quilt of scars:
Sown together scraps of terror,
Of pain, of suffering,
Of the dark wells into which I fell,
Of the dark wells I clawed and crawled,
bloodied fingered, nails torn off,
Out from the depths,
Of the wealth of human darkness
I have known, of my failures, of my triumphs—
Follow the stitching with your fingers
If you wish to understand
The quilt that I am
Though the batting be made
Of my tears, my blood, my skin,
My scars, bits of my spirit, bits of my soul—
The quilt that I am
Can offer you more
Than any villager can.
Photo by Dhilip Antony on Unsplash
I am a retired teacher, enjoying everything that…
View original post 108 more words
Where writers gather
Atmospheric Mind Flow
Driveling twaddle by an old flapdoodle.
stories, poems and more
May the Words Flow
Poets lie all the time but there are some truths only poetry can tell.
Now we see through a glass, darkly
The Writer
Just a small town girl who writes about Christian stuff.
Musings on life, love, and healing past trauma
Sharing Poetry and Hugs
Poems, Ramblings and Photography
KL CALEY
Inspiration and Spirituality **Award Free**
Navigating life through grandparenthood, chronic illness, dream work, and other inspirations
A dose of fetish. Good friends. An incomparable muse.
These are my inner thoughts, passions and inspirations.
An insight to a heart mind and soul.
An onion has many layers. So have I!
To participate in the Ragtag Daily Prompt, create a Pingback to your post, or copy and paste the link to your post into the comments. And while you’re there, why not check out some of the other posts too!
Alternative haven for the Daily Post's mourners!
A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature: over 400,000 monthly users
Echoes of Life, Love and Laughter
Poetry
A Little Writing Workshop of Horrors.
Showcasing the best of short films and screenplays from the LGBTQ+ community. Screenplay Winner every single month performed by professional actors. Film Festival occurs 21 times a year!
A Discovery of Enlightening Insights, Information, Humor, Writings and Musings
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet by accident.
The Prolific PeskyPoet
Doing the best I can to keep it on the bright side
An Old Plumber, An Ex-Carer, An Amateur Poet, Words From The Heart
a place to chat
Celebrating what makes Brittany unique
A storyteller with a poetic heart
...poetry, stories & rants.
Stephen Fuller *** Poetry, Essays
Poetry by Devon Brock
by Lize Bard
Experiments in Creative Writing, and more ....
Author Aspiring
Dark Writing and Strange Inspirations
My views; a broad.
Less is not enough.
When Map and Terrain Differ.... Follow the Terrain
The Truth for Kyle Brennan
Hearing The Mermaids Sing 