Don’t know what to do
when I dream of you.
Waking, I want to drench
my brain in pure bleach,
soaking it through,
until all the colors of you
out of my soul leach
and no longer do I miss you.
It does begin with whispers of wind,
Steady, slow rhythm of fattened rain drops.
The distant rumbles begin.
Then the slight, quick flashing starts.
Soon the wind howls.
The rain beats as if a beast
Against the windows.
The rumbles, the shouting of an angry God
At the petulant child of a world.
The flashing, the cracking whip
Of our forgotten master.
The downpour is here,
The sobbing of the forgotten,
The hated, the poor,
The ones we were to love.
No ark on this horizon is seen.
This week’s prompt ~ Painted
For visually challenged writers, the image shows a rather oriental red bridge over a pool covered with waterlilies and surrounded by trees.
She lived a painted life.
Careful with her brushes
Always touching up
A chip, a mark, a ragged flaw
As she found them.
If she found a rip or tear
In the precious canvas,
It just would not do,
But she would oh, so carefully
Apply the much-needed glue.
No. Not a single person could tell.
Not a single person knew.
No one knew the time
And care and money
She spent on this
Carefully painted life–
Of verdant grasses,
Irises of every shade
Deepest purples
To palest pinks,
The lush canna lilies,
Fragrant gardenias and lilacs,
The splendor of magnolias,
The stately cedars.
Everyone speaks of a gentle stateliness,
In the air of her personal dress,
Her blonde locks, and her wounded blue eyes
As they looked out
Upon the careful paint of her garden lair,
A spider inspecting her web.
But her victims knew
Of every rip and tear
And all the rot beneath the paint.
For her victims lay silent, faint
Cocooned beneath
Many coats of paint.
Don’t. Don’t tell me to pray.
For years, I have every day.
All that I am I’ve offered as a prayer.
Every breath. Every bite of food.
Every step. Counting pennies,
Dollars. It’s all the same.
I’ve whispered, I’ve mumbled,
I’ve chanted, I’ve silently said
All my prayers for you, for myself,
For my dog, for my daughter,
For my grandchildren yet unborn,
For the world that couldn’t give a damn.
Yes, I’ve fucking prayed for us all.
I’ve prayed while driving
With each rotation of the tires.
I’ve prayed oceans of prayers.
Prayed from here to there
In lines of crispy breadcrumb trails
Eaten by the birds for whom,
Yes, I’ve prayed too.
So, what more am I to do?
I’ve prayed in churches, in houses,
In an apartment, along the nature paths,
On walks, on runs. I’ve prayed.
I prayed in the sun, the rain,
I screamed at God during a thunderstorm,
When thunder drowned my screams
And lightning did threaten
To shut my damn mouth.
Yet I prayed. And still even in this,
I do pray with these words
Though they’ve earned no answer
Yet, so don’t entreat me to pray
This damn pandemic away.
I still do pray in every single way,
So just—don’t.
VJ’s Weekly Challenge #96: circling
Circle through the years of youth
Find the gems along the streams
Of your years, my love.
Collect them in a basket,
Keep them close.
When the time comes
Give each away to your
Young ones.
Make each a gift,
Tied with ribbons
Of what you dream
And all of your
Wishes
For them.
As I have given
All my words
As a gift
Tied with ribbons
Of my dream
Of love
And my wish
Of happiness
For you,
My love,
My gift,
My daughter.
Sleeplessness always told the story
between the back when and now,
what she once thought a game,
tracks leading nowhere.
This last section of living
something not well lived.
A swirl of memory
piercing through knots
too tight to be undone.
She had lived without a plan,
having a heart that spoke in tongues
she had yet to understand.
This week’s prompt ~ Dance
For visually challenged writers, the image shows a pale sun piercing the mists above a green path through a golden field, leading into the center of a circle of stones.
A mist of souls weaves among the stones
A dance between grasses of green and gold
Breezes chant in ancient secret runes,
Speaking in tongues of priestesses and druids–
A single soul leaps toward a shrouded sun,
And something in our blood no longer runs—
At all fluid.
Harmony never made sense to me
And neither did melody.
Can’t tell the difference, you see.
No talent with any instrument.
A singing voice that’d send me
To some lower level of hell.
Well, I’d never play Orpheus,
That’s for sure.
And no matter what you may think,
You ain’t some worthy Eurydice.
In breaking silence,
earth and sky kiss again.
At a toast of mid-day,
the moon shows her face,
a smile of grace.
In the glimmer of a star’s dance,
a thorn on dried roses prick,
a reminder of circumstance.
Pieces broke away,
pebbles and stones
chipped from a boulder.
The edge of a pane of glass
broken off, no longer smoothly square,
but rough ridged like a broken thumb nail,
begging to be filed away.
Pieces broken away,
missing in wordlessness,
cannot be found.
Jig saw together the rest,
glue, duct tape,
what is left,
never to imitate new, unbroken.
Broken, hollowed parts,
make for an ever incomplete,
an always abyss
to fall headlong into,
always a scratchy roughness to scrape
a knee, an elbow, a hand.
Always a sharp edge to slice open
an abdomen, an arm, a femoral artery, a throat.
No. No. No.
Everything, everything
at once, best kept at arm’s length.
Never can such wounds be allowed
in the here,
in the now.
undone in spectacle
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