Tuesday, September 30, 2014

September's End


Autumn is a pressed leaf
On a page I’ve already read,
Stained yellow by the
Finger-print of my younger self.

Fall brings about the kind of nights where
Each picture window facing the wood
Splits itself like a tapestry into
Shifting shapes of cinnamon and honey-sky.

Streetlights flash their censors a little
Earlier each evening, and the yellow checks
Of window-glass from neighboring houses
Beckon to winter birds and wood vermon
Like branch-lanterns from another era.

Autumn is an old man in a red shirt
Reading a forgotten newspaper that blows
The aging faces of it’s stories across
Lawns full of ever-green the foliage of pine.

We embroider our early nights of spray-paint orange
And coal-stove cinder, carnivals and hayrides.
We drink apple cider in the backs of cars,
Happy and pressed knee-to-knee like thirsty clowns.

September is a fresh sundress
You can no longer wear without a sweater,
It’s a boot-full of pine cone and red pepper,
Fresh potato soup simmering,
And the sweet molasses of cornbread baking
against the cozy, crackling logs of a bonfire.

This is a season-full of rusty cars,
Bodies swaying against a solstice-colored sky
To a small-town band in a country field,
their drums beating the sweaty blues
of summer into some other hemisphere.


Written for a prompt at Magpie Tales.
Added to the open link at Toads.

Saturday, September 27, 2014

Evening Walk Past a Cemetery

This creepy cemetery actually is only two houses down from my apartment.  It gives me the creeps, and every time I pass it, I think to myself of (morbid, I know) everything the dead are missing...the summer air, shopping for christmas, decorating for halloween, family celebrations....merely to breathe!  It makes me more grateful for all my moments, but it's also a little depressing.  So, that's really what this poem is about.


Tonight my feet are gold spheres,
I’m pushing past the footpath,
Shoe-soles folded against concrete
Like an eclipse no one else can see.

Traffic is waving past me,
All those twinkling headlights
And busy people, they are needful,
Always tugging for more room,
A futile searching for things unfound.

I turn the corner and stumble past them,
An ocean full of broken stones,
My heartbeats following the same flight
As a flock of blackbirds,
The trill of a lone, hungry bat.

There’s an animal instinct in me to flee
The broken bushes, wind-soul of the eerie silence.
A cold piece of the inner city where
Deaths’ door reigns an omnipotent whoosh
Between ancient trees and chipping concrete.

I believe there are secrets the dead keep,
A universe-full of unwritten scribe,
Perhaps the heartbeat reappears,
Unable to break the cork of coffin and soil
Once the flowers wilt and the grass regrows
And I’m not yet ready to hear some invisible voice,
Have my flesh tarnished by the untouchable.

Senses keen, I’m suddenly aware
There is no reconciliation
For cold hands that can no longer feel.
And, feet burning of fight or flight, I shout into
The nearing brightness of a busy parking lot.
Unashamed, I am glorified by the speaking,
Walking flesh and blood found
In coffee-shop windows and fast food patrons.

I want only the warm bask
Of past-time conversation,
And my familiar apartment,
All one-thousand square feet of it,
And my family, hot coffee, old books, words.
And to keep on breathing.  Just to breathe.


Written for my very own 1st prompt Warning The Stars Saturday Prompts.  I invite everyone to stop by on Saturdays.  Read, partake and share what you come up with.  Or merely serve the muse.  :)

Saturday Prompt #1: 'Love Is Paradise' Word List





I found this song back in December 2012.  I had no idea it fell beneath the genre of 'EuroPop' and really didn't care (though now, it's a genre I've explored and enjoy quite a bit).  Anyway, I was going through a transition back then.  An inner battle much ado to my own sexuality, my loneliness, an innate need to search the depths of myself for questions yet unanswered...questions about life, meaning, and my existence.  I was becoming an explorer and digging into music, quotes, poets, books, and new authors allowed me the freedom to engage myself to this private cause.

But within this song (and I've found it's only included in the official video version, which is what I'm sharing), there's a speech/verse which is a passage by the philosopher Iris Murdoch that touched me deeply.  This was a verse about love, acceptance, forgiving and existing purely as what you are in this crazy universe where most things remain a mystery.

Below is the passage that I love so.  It took me quite a few times of listening to the song to get it all written down, so forgive me if you find a variation from her actual text:

"Everything was love.  Everything will be love.  Everything has been love.  Everything would be love.  Everything would have been love.  Ah, that was it, the truth at last:  everything would have been love.

The huge eye, which became an immense sphere was gently breathing.  Only it was not an eye or a sphere but a great, wonderful animal covered in little waving legs like hairs.  Waving, oh so gently as if they were under water.  'All shall be well, and all shall be well,' said the ocean.  

So the place of reconciliation existed after all.  Not like a little knothole in a cupboard, but floating everywhere and being everything.  I had only to will it and it would be for spirit is omnipotent, only I never knew it, like being able to walk on the air.

I could forgive.  I could be forgiven.  I could forgive, perhaps that was the whole of it after all.  Perhaps being forgiven was just forgiving, only no one had ever told me.  There was nothing else needful, just to forgive.  Forgiving equals being forgiven, the secret of the universe.  

Do not, whatever you do, forget it.  The past was folded up and in the twinkling of an eye everything had been changed and lived beautiful and good."


So, for my very first prompt I've compiled a word-list from Murdoch's passage.  Let these words take you where they will.  You don't have to write about the meaning of life or forgiveness or love (or anything even related to the passage above)...though you can if that's where your inspiration takes you.


Word List:

sphere

breathing

animal

waving

reconciliation

omnipotent

universe

secret

folded

twinkling

needful

ocean


So, there you have it.  Keep this prompt for a rainy day or write with it and link us in the comments so we can share our work with each other!

But most of all, just have fun and inspire each other!!

Friday, September 26, 2014

Like a Rabi, Listen



Close your eyes and listen,
The moon is humming a secret language,
There are voices in the water,
A song in the lurching throat of the toad.
Even the wood of each swamp shack
Rattles with the energy it means to be beamed
From sky-spirit to flesh and foot-sole.
The clouds are singing off-key,
Their opaque, open mouths spewing earth matter,
And stars are popping everywhere,
Flying into our eyes like monsoon sand.
There is a silent prayer
In the crazy way the elderly laugh,
The sickening wind-spray
Of crocus weed and spring seed.
There’s joy in any breath unlabored,
A sweet serenity in the intellectual
Questioning of death.

Shhh…pause for a moment and listen
To the breast-stroke of the bluegill.
The steady flight of a summer bird
Swimming the sky like an  amateur land-sleuth,
Each eye shining like a set of porch-lights
Between wet woods and dead leaves.
Understand that life is merely an avenue.
You walk the street and follow the signs,
You laugh if you want at the way of strange things,
The hidden gems you find between
Concrete cracks that break into perfect halves
They way breakfast eggs never do,
Nor candle-wicks when they're too long to cut,
Stout of their wax snuffing light from shadow
So that the storm seems darker than it ever was
Until you wake to morning sunshine and bluebirds,
to realize it never rained at all.


Written for a prompt at Toads.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

The Assistant Editor




Her heart is a gold pin and she crosses herself when the homeless walk past even though she is not religious.  Her private world is a cave of thrifts and trinkets in an old apartment on the Eastside with vintage-paper walls just wide enough to live between. 

She is weird in the way she loves how the city never sleeps, loves how dangerous the avenue is on humid nights, an ocean of drunken kids and oblivious middle-aged bitterness.  And, when after only two drinks , the downers carry her in wobbly black boots back into a kitchen with brown bulbs and no one to visit, she keeps vigil for all the lonely stars with stale birthday cake and discount drugstore wine, the kind that numbs her teeth but heats her mind of memories that haunt her nights like the creepy, strange faces of the vintage actors at the Sunday Matinee. 

On Fridays she pretends she’s someone else.  Biting lips with strangers, allowing their unfamiliar hands to hiccup across her lower back in stuffy taxis, a futile expression to the cosmos that she no longer cares that greedy no-names of dance clubs and twilight dig into her skin like miners, each unfelt kiss a picket to shave her exterior at 3am when the alcohol loses its sting.  Then fast-forward to a sticky 7am sharp where she stands naked searching the medicine cabinet for a way to keep breathing without the chest labor of memory.

On Sundays she finds a sad solace in the dead flowers of an abandoned courtyard below her crumbling balcony.  She jumps the gutter, fingers the overgrowth of vines as if each prickly leaf were a lost child, wades puddles and cups rain into each palm like holy water while begging Buddha for enlightenment.


And on Monday she manages to zip her scars into a professional suit, chant a few verses of Gandhi while making the morning commute.  She gives pocket change to the curbside beggars  before clocking in, drinking imitation espresso from a moldy coffee pot and turning blocks of text into stories that mean nothing to her.


Written for prompts at Magpie Tales and Sunday Whirl.


**I actually wrote this piece from people-watching, something I sometimes do for inspiration.  I picked out a lady whom I thought was an interesting subject.  She looked professional, sad, secretive, as if she were always looking for something.  Then I applied my imagination to creating her story.  

**Please don't forget to check out Pink.Girl.Ink.  I know it's rather new and has taken a while to get things off the ground, but I post fun things, and a good poem, each week.  Also am taking submissions to showcase poetry/writings and manuscripts.  I will be publishing one of my own books under Pink.Girl.Ink Press soon.  So if you are looking for a home for a manuscript, please consider us!

Sunday, September 21, 2014

"Autumn Night"



Brown-ashed leaves
Crumble like forgotten webs
Of summer’s hungry spiders.
I walk along a one-way street
And wonder when the moon will rise,
A roaming spotlight across this lonely night.

Scarecrow hands in a field nearby
Twitch of un-spit rain,
The sky spins a blue-pink mesh,
Lonely for a lover, perhaps Neptune.
And as I look across dayfall,
the stack of hay bales on a hill in the distance
Becomes a golden sphinx,
a close-mouthed cat that smiles his secrets.

I am as lonely as these trees,
The thick wood nearby shivering without
The lush of leaves and seed.
Where are you, the shrill spell of night birds
That whiz the bitter truth across
Closed windows of sleeping houses
Like a black Nebula, southbound?

The quiet is a hard, dull pull
That attracts me to empty things,
Things without beating hearts or hands for warmth…
ramshackled barns in their rusty wheels,
Church ruins without proper hymns or Gods,
And the abandoned grocery store near I75,
It’s bricks as hollow as a thousand broken hearts.


Written for a challenge prompt at Toads.  Originally, we were to read the poetry of Karin Boyle and write a poem inspired by her original work.  My poem above was inspired by Boyle's Winter Night.

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Of Curtains and Closet Hangers


These early days of fall
Have been hazy in the
Soured stench of hospital beds
And linens never meant to be my own,
Muscle-sick in a ruffly skirt,
I’ve watched nurses and doctors
Examine my piss, poke and prod
The parts of me I’ve always hid diligently,
Tasted the wicked hangover
Of bitter antidepressants,
Those misguiding liars in assorted
Skittle-candy colors that dangle
An aspired happiness before my eyes.
I have watched cars leap past
My curtained window, so much life
Whizzing down this two-way side street.
Then me, trapped in a dead space
Between anxious psychosomatics
And the strangled smile I seem
To have placed on a hanger
In the closet, along with my favorite dress,
The one I’ll wear on a September date
With my girl, all pumpkin-orange
And smelling of something
Like caramel and cider
Once I’m finally feeling better.


Written for a prompt at Magpie Tales.


**I wrote this because for the last month, I have been sick, yet again!  Which would explain my lack of activity here.  First the flu/bronchitis thing.  Then an intestinal/bladder issue for which nothing 'worrisome' was found by a urologist.  Now I must see another specialist to try and see what the issue is.  It goes without being said that I'm exhausted and fed up with it all.  But I'm keeping my eyes on the sky and hoping it was only an aggravation from the antibiotic I had a few weeks ago.  :/