Behind Bars

Con
-vince me if you can that broken brave is
no oxymoron, that we can be swayed toward

forgiveness in these silent burning days. That
one last glimpse of praise might save us from

our midnight sorry selves, our fallen findings,
the too-tired bindings that have held us fast.

At last, perhaps we’ll befriend bones and skin,
glorious within our own blood lust disasters.

Hopscotch chalk me an unbarred sky, a private
why that just might pass for truth. Let me be

tween these cacophonies of clouds, clacked proof
that rain will come and all is not so lost. Herein lies

the rub, the doubled rainbow hula-hoop of toxic
troubled souls: we are but warriors against concrete

walls of our own making. Flush with fear, but here.
Drink up. Stay thirsty, friend. Break through.

 

..
This is the one with all the prompts. These are getting to be utter nonsense, but it’s still amusing to try to get all the thoughts in there, and I plan to see this thing through to the end. 😉 

 

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Con Artist

…
He makes a pass
and paints her flush,
blush rub
-bled toxic skin.
She calls him ox
(y) moron,
and the dance
begins again.

 

..
In November, we poem. 

 

 

 

Papering the Sky

..

Be
-hold the sun,
flush with first
blush of day
,
an unquiet con
……….(artist)
-trail of clouds, pass
-ing by too soon
,
the dry rub spark
of dark stars,
this toxic oxy
-mo(r)on.

..
In November, we poem. 

 

 

 

Ro Sham Bo

 

.. 

I am paper
-proud, running
with scissors, clinging
to the rock.

 

..

 

Pick Up Sticks

..

One, two
Grab your shoes,
we’re about to head out
into the forest. And there are
wolves.

Three, four
Shut the door. The
boogeyman comes out
……..(hungry, quiet)
after darkest night. And we
just might fool him
into thinking we’re lost.

Five, six
Pick up sticks. Walk
soft, be still. These are the
colors of our childhood, the
sharp edges of our adolescent
storms.

Seven, eight
The path ain’t straight. It’s
crooked, gloriously tired in its
sorry spill. We’re never growin’
up and we’re brave enough to
stumble, smart enough to fill
our pockets with tiny sticks
and stones.

Nine, ten
Broken bones. Again, again.
This is our secret graveyard, the anti
-thesis of our ghosts of thought. We
are the haunters of these here woods,
born of fire and found in glimpse
of moon.

Soon, we shall banshee
our un
-forgiven hearts,
call it a day.

And let those sticks
fall
where
they
may.

 

 

..
In November, we poem. 

 

 

 

Broken Chalk

..

This poem got dropped
on
its
head
on the way over here,
and there is perhaps
nothing left but dust.

But it’s periwinkle
magic, so you’ll trust
me when I say
that you should
read it,
anyway.

 

..
In November, we poem. 

Chipped Saucers, Tiny Spoons

..
I stop by for a cup of tea
and a song, but instead she
says We are all a little broken
,
and I know she’s right, that
the glory of us, of this place
is in our scars, in the dark
-est hour spaces where we
leave our tears. She’s tired

of taming storms, I can tell.
Weary of apologies and quiet
hunger. I would hold her, but
she’s starlight, and my hands
would singe. So I forgive her,

and sit again at her table,
lost in stories gone. Found
in chamomile and crunch
of sugar cube. This is our
private place, our wanting

room, our wailing wall and
wandered sky. This is our
glimpse of something more
-than, some tender world be
-tween. Here, we’re brave.

We’re warriors against it all,
too small to make a sound
that lasts, but too bursting
not to try. We cry. We fail and
flail. And here, we’re saved.

 

..
In November, we poem.