Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen

Monday, September 30, 2013

Shiny and New

 English Great Hall of the Late Tudor Period
(1550-1603)- photo by Margaret Bednar

I thought I might be your favorite
I knew that others
had come and gone before me
I was foolish, thought
I was special

You dressed me in silk
Gave me gold and rubies
Displayed me like one of your paintings
and I glowed in your light

As my sheen grew dull
I faded from your sight
 I begged for your attention
You were already elsewhere

You say that you loved me well
But everyone knows
that well- loved is just another way to say
and you, my love, like your toys 

Monday, September 23, 2013

Dear Mother

 “ cruel mothers are still mothers.
they make us wars.
they make us revolution.
they teach us the truth, early.
mothers are humans. who
sometimes give birth to their pain. instead of children. ”

birth lessons, nayyirah waheed (via nayyirahwaheed)

She tells you she loves you
Then she slaps your face
Her sharp words can cut you
No time can erase
Once you make her angry,
she's silent for days
And even when she's wrong,
it's still you who pays.

When others are happy,
she mutters a curse
then retreats to her room
where she silently nurses
her bitter resentment,
her hard hearted hate
If you contradict her,
she'll get more irate.

A loving glance quickly
transforms to a glare
When you disappoint her,
you better beware
With one hand she strokes you
Stabs you with the other
You never can win
with that kind of mother.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday

Thursday, September 19, 2013

The Morrigan

You think you want me, 
that I am what you desire
Fool, you don't know me
You don't even begin to understand
My fierceness would make you tremble
My fight would make you cower
You may dress in black
and line your eyes with kohl
but I can see the fear
that lives there
When you feel the whisper
of my raven feathers and the word
"No" catches in your throat,
it will be too late
Don't say I didn't warn you.

in which we are asked to write about a Celtic (or other) god. I went with the Morrigan, Celtic goddess of Death and War

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Creepy Jump Rope Songs

One, two, three four
Someone's knocking on the door
Five, six, seven, eight
Pounding hard; don't make him wait
Eight, seven, six, five
Pray to God that you survive
Four, three, two, one
Time is up; he found the gun.

Pretty Penny, age of eight
Tread softly by the garden gate
Plucked a bloom though she'd been warned
Pricked her finger on a thorn
Crimson drops on petals fell
Heaven's milk turned wine of Hell
Sucked the blood so thick and red
Poisoned every word she said.

("Tread softly" is one of the common names of Cnidoscolus aconitifolius, also known as "finger rot" and "mala mujer." The plant has white flowers and is  almost completely covered with sharp spines, which can be irritating and painful to the skin.)

Cuff Bracelet

Upcycled cuff bracelet from one of hubby's old shirts, some lace, and buttons. Kinda cute, huh?

Sunday, September 8, 2013

No Phoenix

inkblot by lolamouse

You love the exits
Dramatic flair
I have to watch them
Pretend I care
I’m tired of playing
the audience
Waiting for the
Next big entrance

You are no Phoenix
You’ve just been burned
You lie in ashes
The pain unearned
So brush yourself off
It’s time you learned
There is no rebirth
Though you may yearn

The star performer
And now I see
You love your mirror
Much more than me
So take your bow and
Walk off the stage
Proselytes waiting
You’re all the rage

But you’re no martyr
You have no cause
You show your scars off
To gain applause
You claim redemption 
but that's untrue
There is no savior
There's only you

You are no Jesus
You’re just a man
Bloody and beaten
Please understand
This ground's not sacred
Not holy land
No Second Coming
No God's command

You are no Jesus
And I’m no whore
You cannot save me
Not any more
You are no king so
Get off your throne
You want to suffer

Friday, September 6, 2013

The Unexpected Stripper

Raven had been working as a stripper at the Pussycat Palace
going on 3 years
She was a beautiful girl
skin dark,
eyes like blue ice,
hair shiny
and inky black as a well-oiled glock

Raven didn't love her job;
she didn't hate it either
It beat bagging groceries or
hostessing at the I-Hop

Raven was working the late shift
The moon was round and full,
a fat man's stomach after an all-you-can-eat buffet
It was closing time
Last dance
before the patrons wandered off,
lost to the night

Raven took the stage,
swayed to the techno music
and began to doubt
the trajectory her life was taking

She had stripped down
to stilettos, pasties, g-string,
and a black, feather boa
The dollars were accumulating by her feet,
wet with sweat
from desperate men's hands

From somewhere in the crowd, Raven heard,
"Take it off, baby! Take it all off!"
Raven was an accommodating and literal minded girl
so off came the pasties, and g-string,
then the shoes and the boa
The men shouted louder

Raven looked at the crowd
Sparks shot from her obsidian eyes
She grinned
Then she began to peel off her skin
First, one arm
then the other
Gently yanking the skin from her fingers
as if it were a cashmere glove
Then her torso, her legs,
and lastly, her face

The men were stunned silent
No one moved
Next, Raven took off muscle,
tossing the scarlet chunks of flesh into the crowd
like they were signed T-shirts and she a rock star
She stuck out her tongue
at the guy who had grabbed her boob earlier that evening
She plucked out her eyes
and dropped them like ice cubes
into the drink of the guy who had called her a slut

She was bone beautiful
No one asked for a lap dance
Raven was relieved,
as it was near impossible to twerk
having no ass
The music ended and Raven
picked up the dollars,
stashed them in her eye holes,
and sashayed away

No one would ever forget
that night at the Pussycat Palace
and no one would ever speak of it.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Fireblossom Friday, Build a Title
and The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 124

Thursday, September 5, 2013

Working the Dough

Yeast blooms in a warm bath
like living fireworks exploding
under a flourescent sky
Powdery flour is worked until
arms burn
fingers ache
then worked again
and again
into an elastic glutenous glob
it sleeps
under a blanket of quiet heat
becoming its own pillow
When it wakes,
it births five little pillows
that grow in the oven
like premies in an incubator
shiny and golden,
they emerge.

Wednesday's project: Challah for Rosh Hashanah

submitted for mindlovemisery, Prompt 19, Food

Monday, September 2, 2013

The Widow

She stood, staring
at the bathroom wallpaper
She had liked it once-
Now the roses were faded;
the seams showed.

The left side of the double sink
held no toothbrush or
soaps or
The bowl was dusty,
toothpaste gobs long gone.

She squeezed the Colgate onto her brush
The crimped end of the tube read
It still worked, but had

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Sunday Mini Challenge, A Birthday in September, William Carlos Williams