Headlines

       You know you're a writer if, when faced with the prospect of eminent death, you start constructing what tomorrow's newspaper headline would read...

LATE-NIGHT FLAT TIRE LEADS
TO KIDNAPPING OF LOCAL GIRL

STRAY M&Ms FOUND ON SEAT
PROVIDE NO CLUES

Fairytale Revisited

The following prompt is for Poet's United Thursday's Think Tank.  The topic was complaints/grumbings.  I just so happen to be overflowing with material!

The prince is late.
This castle ledge is getting moldy.
My silken hair is getting split ends up here
and the glaring sun is doing nothing for my agelines.

Ominous crows circle at eyelevel
Thinking i must be a madwoman
waiting
waiting
waiting
for a charming voice from below
that bellows i will be saved,
at last.

For my mother

I remember being in the womb
Floating in love and anticipation
Knowing
that someday the gigantic cocoon i was in
would break free
and the soothing voice
murmuring from the heavens above
would teach me such things as
how to tie my shoes,
how to write a thank-you letter,
and how to hold a grieving person's hand.
She would show me
how to make "Better Than Sex" cake,
how to roll sock balls,
and how to make my own reservations.
She would know
how to braid my hair,
how to praise my successes,
and how to cushion my failures.
From inside my ocean,
i was certain
that she couldn't help but stay with me
Because her voice was all around me
And it was all i knew of safety,
of nourshment,
of bouyancy.
Today--and on fortunate days--
i get to see her face.
But inside, above, below and all around me
i always can hear
her voice.

This poem was written for Poet's United prompt #14 of "Water" and Sunday Scribblings prompt #230 of "Faith"

The Parasite of Pain

“We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey.”

~Kenji Miyazawa

          Thursday's Think Tank from Poet's United

          The idea or concept of pain can cover a vast field of thoughts and emotions. We must confront pain no matter how simple or hard it is. This week write about whatever pains you.

                                                    

Swallowing your poison seed

I understand the infestation

won't take too long

before it goes

from my helpless nerve endings

driven into the core of my brittle bones

And then up into

my defenseless cerebral cortex.

Deep inside my innermost membrane,

your kernal of malice

is bured under a decade-old compost pile

of rotting fear and insecurity

Adding silence,

hatred blooms triumphant.

Witness Trees

                                                Thursday Think Tank #10
                                                       Poets United

"For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be”
~Lord Alfred Tennyson

It is said that the eyes are the window to the soul. Share with us your poem about the eyes. If we vote right now for our prompt for the week…the eyes have it.

Witness Trees

They watch our scurrying in silence.

Building our anthills with fervor,

marching in lines.

They can't understand the noise, bloodshed and horror.

They observe us slaughtering each other

with colossal machines of death.

Back and forth we run

moving dirt this way and that

in rhythms of chaos and explosions.

In their motionlessness

they must think we're lunatics

Racing, pacing, interlacing stones with sky.

They must know by now that they should be afraid.

And even if they could grow eyes,

surely all they would do is cry.

My Sanctuary

The Thursday Think Tank
Poets United will put out weekly poetry prompts in hopes of inspiring great poetry. We will attempt to do so every Thursday. This is not a requirement of our members, it is merely a way to provoke our creative urges.

PROMPT #9:
Sanctuary: a place of refuge
 

My Sanctuary

 

My sanctuary lies in a musty church basement.

It is decorated with uncomfortable metal folding chairs and smells of strong, black coffee.

My sanctuary doesn't have a choir.

In fact, instead of hymns I hear anthems of despair.  Anthems of desperation and, at times, surrender.

I don't find angels either. 

The voice of God sounds exactly like the stranger sitting next to me.

In my sanctuary i find my fellow tribe members.  And they will keep me safe from the visions in my head for a short while.

I am sheltered from the monster that whispers, "This time you can handle it."

This church basement holds

laughter and tears

hope and redemption

death and life.

 

My sanctuary is no longer in the shape of little white pills.

Now my sanctuary is in me.