Le Sang d'un Poète

The blood of a poet

is no more precious than

the blood of a child

the blood of a gangbanger

the blood of a survivor

The blood of a poet

is no more profound than

the blood of a mother

the blood of AIDS

the blood of transfusions

The blood of a poet
is not special

It is not art

It is only human

And that is enough.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Words Count With Mama Zen

Which Princess Are You?

Photo by Christopher Jobson for Colossal

The princesses of Dismaland

are dismayed

by their company's poor marketing strategies

and lackluster consumer demand

Tinderella

is desperately seeking a hook-up

She checks her phone constantly

disappointed by the dearth of hot guys

Snow White Lives Matter Too

thinks she's socially conscious

and not at all racist

but just doesn't get it

Mariel

escaped her country on a crappy little boat

filled with convicts and the mentally ill

and nearly drowned in toxic waste-filled water

Jazzmine

is a brilliant artist

She is addicted to heroin

and will eventually be found dead in the Castle

Belle Jarre

is quite melancholy

and wanders the park 

with her head in an oven

Chip and Dale

two washed-up ex-strippers

try to enliven the girls by offering lap dances

There are no takers

Even Pluto

the princesses' favorite pet

can't help cheer them up 

Corporate deemed him no longer a character

He now sits outside the gates

howling at passers-by

and begging for scraps.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Tuesday Platform 

It's Not Art Unless It Has the Potential To Be a Disaster

Photo by Christopher Jobson for Colossal

The gallery’s ready

The artist is in

The crowd stands waiting

For it to begin

The doors are open

The Chardonnay flowing

Critics’ heads nodding

With insiders’ knowing

Wallets are bursting

With checkbooks and cash

While patrons muse anxiously

“Genius or trash?”

The gasp is collective

Rejection? Disdain?

“It’s perfectly awful-

He’s done it again!”

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Flash 55 Plus

Summer Night

Nocturne in Black and Gold, James McNeill Whistler, wikimedia commons

Night softens the day's edges

The moon erases

boundaries

Rubs out distinctions

Sky becomes earth becomes trees

Feet become sidewalk become paws

Arm becomes leash becomes dog

Separateness becomes oneness

Footsteps blend with

the clicking of paws

the thud of heat lightening

the trill of crickets

the bass rhythm of frogs

A soup of sound,

thick and nourishing

We walk,

an aggregate of bone and skin and fur, 

wrapped in the warm muddy mist

of a summer night.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Non-FB Friday, Finding the Right Tone

Great Expectations

The Artist In His Studio by Rembrandt

Potential looms large

Over an empty canvas

Painter hesitates.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Weekend Mini Challenge - Ekphrasis