The fireworks were over,
our black sky smoking quietly,
not blowing hot or cold, our
backwoods path rutted, sharp-edged
words poking between polished
gems, fashioned to skip thoughts across
our waiting pond stocked for phishing,
those days grew long sweating out
sunny words while ducking reality,
you feeding greedily on honeyed: yes,
please, thank you for saving me.
Staring into sulphuric shadows,
a red-hot sparkling last dance;
the glowing scythe rising high,
gone golden, piercing the naked hour
when even bulls stop croaking and
cattails go silent in the gloaming;
a screech-owl roaming, she swoops
down to catch a runner, brown-white,
bleeding it for her young.
we’ve come undone.
words have turned pages red;
sheets twisted, bedroom battle field,
God gave us sleep for peace;
angry words will only conjure
bitter dreams thick with black
tar that sticks to white soles
soiling, holding, no escaping
the hollow bullet turned sharp
blade,a willfully worded weapon
for cutting down;
until that fog laced day awakes
a whisper: a soothing song
replacing the shouting drum:
imagine; abandon; a new run -
unhook those rusted chains,
attach these gossamer wings,
then find a cliff and step;
I promise, the life to write
has just begun.
submitted to OSP…all poetry welcome, follow link.
Posted by angela on 2011/07/06
Concrete crumbled upon the touch of unholy soles landing in a flip-flop miss mess,her step breaking surface; no biblical miracle, her body painting a shadow of mourning greys while sidestepping ribbons of magenta wisps, a trail for beaks, worms beneath that drowned while wriggling up against depressive pressure, thundering droplets falling in sheets while she sat knitting the night blackest black, a sheath of damask that hung itself to shade from Van Gogh’s sky.
She tries praying, but words collapse into puddles, indigo eyes gone colourless,mind disconnects; irises within a glass prism, wilting as they attempt to stand, up-rooted, primary red drying to brown; if they had voices, they’d question: why did you pick me, I was thriving in your fertile ground? She sighs as she tosses dead blooms: see you soon, tis a short good-bye. The grandfather wheel cranked again, time refreshed; her body bent over pulling summer’s final greens, her silver mane brushing barren ground, rootless and waiting to bury her heirloom seed.
If you read and are frustrated by these, no worries, as am I. The majority of this came via stream while in church Saturday night as I listened to the opening ‘jam’. (I don’t participate as I am an observer…there for the lecture). I tried to work on it today, tidy it up a bit(tis a mess with all that auto junk via iPhone notes) but I’ve yet to figure it out other than it is about death, despair and renewal.
sidebar>> really going to try to encourage the muse to get a bit more peppy or political, oy!
Posted by angela on 2011/07/03
Stranded, we lashed our lives together in complex accordance
to remembered words, until each utterance conformed; converged.
She kissed your lips then bled you dry.
He ringed my hand then took a ride.
This island, our morass of splintered dreams;
We lay our bed of gathered feathers beneath a virgin palm, open wide.
Nature fans our naked beings,
salted dew cleans collected sins
until we seek embrace of life again,
unabashed, unlashed; skin to skin.
Photo by Adam Romanowicz, featured artist on OSP. Visit OSP to be inspired by this wonderful photographer’s work and link your inspired words.
Posted by angela on 2011/06/26