Burn Away

Courtesy of free photo library
Is this what you, indeed, wish?


The feel of some bold mystic chaos
Contained within the fire of kisses
Traveling along the boundaries
Where lived an identity
You lost long ago—
To feel that chaotic fire
Burn away the identity
You wear today—
Feel passionate softness
Twist within and around
Leaving bruises unseen
And you undone
In twisting mystic
Chaos of fire.


The Power

https://godoggocafe.com/2021/08/03/tuesday-writing-prompt-challenge-august-32021/

Who is to say

From where her power came?

Did it flow from her silken curls?

Or her painted red lips?

Her white skin that glows like the fullest of full moons on a cloudless night?

There’s no way to know

From where her power came

To break through stone.

July

Image courtesy of O’Conner Mortuary

 

I’d nail all the windows in that month shut.

Board the place completely up.

All closed and shuttered,

Leaving it to the dust and rot.

July—the only summer month

I’d abandon

The month forced me to abandon you—

How is a starving  child forced to leave

A mother who sold herself

So the child could eat?

Thus, I cared for you

Until I had to reach out and close your eyes—

Then I dreamed

Dreamed–

I nailed the windows in every room shut

And I boarded up every room.

I took a hammer to that floor to ceiling avocado green tile

Of the kitchen tomb,

Shattering every single inch

Of mirror green shine.

I brought the garden hose in

And hosed down all our scars

Until yours and mine

Nearly disappeared.

Then I woke

And buried you

Under roses

In hot, steamy July

Shuttering you away

Until I thought there’d

Be nothing left of you.

But you are always here.

I pick the good of you

From the rubble,

See little bits of you

In each of your grandchildren.

I see bits of you in my daughter,

And our legacy is not only

One of scars.

The Willow Trees

Image from Pinterest

https://onewomansquest.org/2021/05g/24/vjs-weekly-challene-trees/

 

In the stillness of days between,

The willows long to reach across the stream,

Breaching distance impossible.

Without the breeze,

Their branches hang in solitude,

Their leaves nearly tears,

Longing drips with want heavy in the air

Until finally—thunder—

Lightning— A breeze teases,

Limbs reaching,

Almost, nearly touching—

And then the wind begins,

Whipping one direction,

Then another, almost swirling,

Limbs, leaves touch

Across the stream

Solitude breached.

The World and Technicolor Youth

Image courtesy of LearningRadiology.com
 
 

When colors bled into the world

Through the ice blue topaz of your eyes,

When we both dreamed dreams of kaleidoscope horizons

Blooming in colors too true to be real,

The universe grew beyond our measure

Where recall of dreams came so easily,

Happiness and joy found no reason to arm wrestle

With the stark reality of the world back then

In our younger times—

Before the world shrank

To this extra small size colored

In tones of X-ray grays

Now showing the long-healed breaks and cracks

Of ribs and jaw and clavicle

Yet in this time of a shrinking world and universe

Steeped in all hues of gray

With the amnesia of shrunken head dreams unbreakable,

The filter of your ice topaz eyes—

A small price to pay for wholeness

Of body, bone, and mind.

Guarded Trail

Image courtesy of Sue Vincent
Thursday photo prompt: Guarded #writephoto | Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo (scvincent.com)

Give me a minute.

Let me have another cup of coffee,

Will you?

Before I slosh on after,

Down the trail–

Again– maybe.

You say, a guard now stands there,

Of the newer variety,

Who advises of the locust thorns,

The kind that pierces the shoe

And can go straight into your foot?

Could have used that advice–

Once or twice

Maybe thrice

In life.

But now I’ve rubbed my thumbs

Over the sharp tipped thorns of regret

Until callouses formed.

Then I moved on to other

Fingertips until bloody, raw,

Proving to myself the sharpness of thorns.

So now, you say this stony guardian warns

Of all the thorns

Along the paths and trails?

Might this guardian advise of a thornless trail?

I really wouldn’t care, but the soles of my feet

Are without callous, and I’d like to keep them so.

Send me down a muddy, sloshy trail where

I might just fall and break my neck.

That would be simply fine,

If the soles of my feet

Remain as soft and unmarred

as a baby’s behind.

Musings on the Cracked Crystal Ball

Image courtesy of Aliexpress
https://amanpan.com/2020/09/28/eugis-weekly-prompt-crystal-ball-september-28-2020/

When you found the things you could,

A mist of breath showed in the rain,

Twin clouded rain shimmered colors

Of gray stone before you on a path you would go.

If only, if only, you should know the bones of us,

Move knotted stiff with the griefs you’ve piled upon your soul,

We’d glow of phosphorus and neon in velvet darkness.

Walking the dark, shadowed canyon of dreams

Wilted by disappointments and deflated sunshine

Waking to dimmest daylight at noon

Where you cannot bear to look

Upon your own reflection,

A sight of horror in your own eyes now

In that cracked crystal ball where you stand,

In your own self-consecrated field

Of plastic flowers bowing their majestic heads to you,

Your straw haired head is bowed,

Smiling at the ground.

Petals of the Dead

Image courtesy of Pinterest
https://freeverserevolution.wordpress.com/2020/09/14/september-writing-prompt-3-2/

I tossed them away

Some time ago–

Petals of the dead.

Some flowers taken

From above the six-foot holes

I have stood over,

Frozen in the emptiness

Of an empty hole

About to be filled.

Some flowers taken

From birthday and anniversary

Bouquets of celebration,

Marking years of bitter happiness.

Most flowers taken

From a wedding bouquet

Of vows taken, kept,

A reminder of vows abandoned.

 

Petals of the dead kept

Out of wretched sentimentalism

I burned upon the pyre

With myself.

Then climbed a new self

Of burnished bronze

From the flames.

 

Thoughts on a Stone Fairy

Photo from social media attributed to Jean-Michel Bihorel

I started to write this one when I first saw this photo on Facebook.  I did some research to find the true name of the mountain and then wrote down a few lines. Then I saw Eugenia’s weekly prompt was “fairy” and things took off from there.

UPDATE– However, the fact checkers did not have all the facts when I checked, and it seems I was duped.  Fact checkers I used (and I used several) only had the name of the mountain as being incorrect, and they all agreed that this was a drone image.  However, it seems they have been updated and the image is really the digital work of an artist named Jean-Michel Bihorel.  Thank you to Susi Blocks who brought this to my attention.  I may remove the post entirely but I will take a minute to think about that.

https://amanpan.com/2020/08/10/eugis-weekly-word-prompt-fairy-august-10-2020/

She rests now,

              Snowbound,

              ‘Sleeping,

Some giant stone fairy of another land,

Another time, when fantastic creatures

Walked with us.

There is in me

Awe, admiration of her peace—

Thinking wistfully of what if’s—

Had I been born a giantess of stone

Or one with fairy blood of snow—

I could have loved her,

              Curled behind her,

              Spooned for centuries.

              No one to care,

              Know,

              Disturb the peace

              We shared—

              Till seen from above

              By a modern drone—

Then perhaps humanity might again know

Fantastical creatures once roamed,

Possessing magic.

But I am no fantastic being.

Possessing no magic,

I am no match for a mythic wonder.

My blood, without a drop of the fairy kind,

Destine for warmer, ordinary climes.

Tone Deaf

image courtesy of Etsy.com
Written as a response to the following prompt:
https://amanpan.com/2020/05/11/eugis-weekly-prompt-harmony-may-11-2020/

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.