The Drought is Over

Kiss me

to the bone

with your

rosebud lips.

Make me oblivious

to thunder.

Dance through my veins

as I breathe you in.

Drenched and dripping,

surely I will drown

in you.

Enfold me in

your arms

as rain

puddles at our feet.

Gene Kelley

ain’t got nothin’ on us.

This is written for The Mag where Tess Kincaid provides a weekly writing prompt.  Join us there.

Galilei

Push aside the curtain of day

looking to eternal night:

breathless sight.

Longing sigh, clutch the sky;

hold me to you tight.

Smitten with the inky blue

I give this night to you.

This is for IGwRT Sunday Mini-challenge.  The challenge is to use the rhyme and meter form created by Paul Lawrence Dunbar.  Specifics can be found at the site. Go read what everyone did and give it a try!

Image from: lakeobigwater.com

Willow Manor Ball

How exciting – my first Willow Manor Ball!  Thank you for everything Tess; you are the perfect host.

I carefully chose my dress

from the tree where they grow

behind the house.

The gloves I knit of

licorice laces.

As music saturates me

the elephant in the room

sits at my side on the couch,

imploring me with absinthe eyes.

How could I possibly say no?

At first I couldn't find a thing to wear

until I remembered the dress tree out back:

It was a tough decision, but in the end I chose this black and white number...

...and elephants of course.

And the mask I will be wearing looks like this: 

Of course to go with elephants I must have the simple elegance of pearls:

Finally, to complete the ensemble, I've opted for these tied up heels...

...so there won't be any lost shoe incidents.

I promised to save the last dance for Babar, but could I have THIS dance with you?  Please won't you join me at the ball?

What Were You Thinking?

I feel a difference in the air.

if you go out, please have a care;

All Hallows Eve’s within the week;

when spirits rise, your soul to seek.

The undead, ghosts and demons

will be upon us soon, but

 I’ll take my monsters hairy, wild

and hoOowling at the moon!

Image: top10films.co.uk

Here is a FF55 for G-man in keeping with the spirit(s) of the upcoming holiday.  Follow the link and check it out, or add your own 55 words of poetry or fiction.

Eckleburg

Does anyone look on

as we fashion

our monuments to death?

Decorate our bodies like sarcophagi;

arrange the canopic jars:

liver, lungs, intestines, spleen.

Lay out bones like dominos,

triangulating the distance 

between soul and abyss.

Written for The Mag and also linked to IGwRT open link Monday.  Both are well worth your time to have a look.  The above image is from Tess Kincaid.

Karmageddon

I have the list that karma missed,

penned the last time I got pissed:

dog-kickers, boot-lickers,

whiney little nose-pickers,

men who say they’ll call then don’t,

or promise to be true but won’t,

tattletales, bullies, hypocrites, thugs,

global warming doubters, litter bugs.

I’m attorney, judge and jury,

and you know well, hell hath no fury…

This is for everyone's favorite G-man and his FF55.  Check it out, and leave your own 55 words of wisdom or folly.

*Disclaimer:  This is only a partial list, other infringements and character flaws may be subject to Karma (or me) without prior warning.  Especially if it's a day that I'm having a snit.  Always be sure to read the fine print, cause you just never know!

Image: Karma-recto by Corporatecounsel.net

Midnight Snack

There is homely magic

in this late-night kitchen.

We gather

in a communion of teacups

resting on worn Formica,

encircled by elbows

and infused with cinnamon and safety.

Warm, buttermilk light wraps

around our shoulders

like a 60-watt blanket.

It spills from the windows

carving shapes in the night.

Together we weave

our disparate stories.

They rise like steam before us,

between us;

twisting and converging

until we belong.

The image Midnight Snack, by Curtis Wilson Cost is offered as a writing prompt at The Mag.  Join us.

Nocturne

I have the same dream again:

an old woman sits before me.

I don’t know who she is, but

I am washing her hair,

and it all seems to make sense.

As I massage her scalp gently, lovingly,

in the suds 

big hunks of her hair

come out in my hands,

and then the skin itself.

I’m horrified, standing there

with ribbons of flesh 
hanging from my fingers.

I try to form words to ask her

if she is alright, but of course she isn’t…

I’m holding her bloody scalp in my hands.

Then I look down, and from the shiny, white

bone of her skull

poppies are growing, blooming.

And then it’s not her,

it’s me.


This is for the poeticaphobia prompt at dVerse Poets' Pub.

Arrivals and Departures

Arrivals: looking forward                         

What are you going to?                            

What tips the scale                                  

till you take action?                                 

Is it a shiny, new promise,                      

gleaming in the moonlight?                      

Is it lips and hips or legal tender?            

What song do the sirens sing                    

to you?                                                    

                                                               

What pushes you                                     

to pack your bag,

open the door,                                      

and step out?                                          

 

Departures: looking back

What are you leaving?

What tips the scale

till you take action?

Is it one monumental event,

or another in a string  

of small indignities?

Too many grey days,

unrequited nights…

What song do the sirens sing

to you?

What pushes you

to pack your bag,

open the door,

and step out?

Here's a double dose of 55 for G-man's FF55.

Anatomy and Physiology

Easy:

slide down between

my rib cage and breast bone

nestle in the solar plexus

pierce my superior vena cava;

infuse yourself with every pulse

tingling all the way.

You go down so

easy. 

Strike the Set

The show is over
we played our parts,
offered up our soliloquies
full of passion and despair.
We had a good run,
though shorter
than I had hoped.

Towards the end
performances had become
tired, uninspired.
No calls for encore,
no standing ovation;
we simply shuffle off
exit, stage left.

The Juggling Act

At the start

your flawless footwork

amaze and

bedazzle everyone.

You defy gravity.

But in time,

keeping all the balls

in the air,

balanced in

their proper places,

becomes more difficult.

And always remember

 to concentrate

while walking

the high wire,

although you know how

absurd you look to the crowd 
below.

Image provided by IGWRT.

Sick Woman

When Tess Kincaid provided us with this image of 'Sick Woman' by Jan Steen at The Mag two oddly dissimilar things came to mind.  They are (and I'm not proud of this) as follows:

In the immortal words of Robert Palmer:

Doctor, Doctor gimme the news

I got a bad case of lovin’ you.

No pill is gonna cure my ill -

I got a bad case of lovin’ you. 


And the other was inspired by a quote from Edna St. Vincent Millay, which seems quite fitting as it is featured on the Willow Manor blog. 
“You see, I am a poet, and not quite right in the head, darling. It’s only that.” 

So with that in mind I came up with this:

The voices are so loud today;

why can’t you hear them too?

They set my skull to vibrating

and pierce my temples through.

Nonplussed, my pulse can scarce push past

the throng that crowds my heart.

The pills you push will not convince

these voices to depart.

Churning, yearning they all want  

for me to give them voice,

Bring me my pen and paper, don’t

you see I have no choice?

And there you have it.
This is also at the open link night at dVerse.  Check out the others there.

Autumn Romance

I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.― L.M. Montgomery

In autumn precious days grow short

and nights of somber darkness lengthen;

Earth falls in love with sweet la mort.

In autumn precious days grow short,

thin sunshine and deep shadows court;

seductive charms of winter strengthen.

In autumn precious days grow short

and nights of somber darkness lengthen.

This is fashionably late for IGWRT Transforming Friday.  The form is called a Triolet with the rhyme scheme of Aba Aab AB for when you really only want to write a little!  (usually in iambic pentameter or tetrameter)

Image by Mary Bach

Other

I am the smooth surface of a pond

reflecting your image back to you.

I am the darkness

 around the stars in the night sky;

I am what you cannot see.

I am a pebble resting in a deep pocket,

smooth and inscrutable.

I am what remains.

I am other.

For G-man's FF55.