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

Pigeon Superstition

source

You tell me that you love me

But you run so hot and cold

You hug me then you shove me

I just can't get a hold

You swear to God you need me

And then you walk away

You never wanna see me

Then you're beggin' me to stay

You're random with affection

I just can't seem to score

It's pigeon superstition

Keeps me pecking for more

You say that I'm so special

That no one else will do

But then I find your texts

with all the girls you wanna screw

You plead with me to keep you

You need me by your side

But I can't help from feelin'

I'm being taken for ride

You love me then ignore me

It's paradise or hell

It's pigeon superstition

and it's workin' so well

I love you and I hate you

You got me in a rage

It's pigeon superstition

and I'm stuck in the cage.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, The Tuesday Platform  and a very belated
Pigeon Superstition

Crepuscular Creatures

source

Call me

a crepuscular creature

I exist

in the in-between

Not light

not dark

Not day

not night

I inhabit the fringes

the edges

My time

is the time of change

the time of uncertainty

I hover 

along the borders

of this and that

I am at home

in the almost

and the not-quite

I belong to everyone

and to no one.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Weekend Mini Challenge: Poetry Time

A Calling Out

This poem is not polite

This poem means to trespass

This poem is angry

You call me immoral

Your morals are conveniences

You are a hypocrite

No, this poem is not polite

You value life

and support the death penalty

Does inconsistency make you uncomfortable?

This poem trespasses on your comfort

The only life you value

is rich and white

Others you condemn to suffer

This poem understands anger

This poem spits at politeness

This poem trespasses through your morals

This poem is angry.

Too many words for Flash 55+ so submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Tuesday Platform

Trespass

image by Banksy

I finally got you out of my life

Now stop trespassing in my mind!

You trample through my thoughts

like some pesky kid

who cuts through the neighbor's yard

back and forth from school every day

No matter how many times

I chase you away

You always come back

and always with

that stupid smirk!

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Flash 55 Plus

Roxy Calls

Roxy calls all the men "honey"
cuz she can't remember names
Halloween bag full of sweets
Every one tastes just the same

Checks her horoscope each day
Acrylic nails tap on her phone
Virgo, the virgin makes her laugh and say
"I was never one of those."

Roxy wears her fuck-me heels
And a mini dress so tight
like a lime green ace bandage wraps her body
She knows that she's looking right

Mama hasn't called in years
(but who's counting?)
Family says that it's a shame
But she's done with all the prayers and all the tears
Roxy says "It's who I am."

Roxy calls all the men honey
cuz she can't remember names
Medicine chest full of poisons
They all make her feel the same.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, It's A Shame About Ray

Girl In Black

I am the girl in black

I wrap myself in blind heartbreak

thick and dark as pitch

The people have branded me

a witch of sorts

What facile assumption!

I, my dear, am a werewolf

I have no need for spells

or dolls with pins

I have claws more caustic

than a scorpion's sting

Teeth that tear through flesh

easy as butter

Men fear me

I am blood

and bite

I am tides

and howling at the moon

They hunt

what they can not understand

or possess

Are you afraid?

Come a little closer

Can you detect my scent?

I wear my blood like perfume

It is quite enticing

once you get past the gore

I know what you're thinking

"She'd be wild in bed"

Well, come lay with me

and I'll show you wild

I will devour you

Savor your taste

on my tongue

and lick my lips 

when I am finished.

submitted for Magpie Tales Mag 278
and The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 207
and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Tuesday Platform

Sarasota Summers

Children Playing on the Beach by Mary Cassatt

I walk along the ocean's edge today

I feel the warm, wet sand beneath my toes

Remembering the times I used to play

With grandmother in summers long ago

Collecting seashells buried in the sand

Like treasures waiting just for us to find

Along the beach we wandered, hand in hand

Our shoes as well as worries left behind

And though today  I walk the beach alone

I still keep my eyes cast upon the sand

To search for seashells even though I'm grown

Our treasures there to seek within the strand

I gaze upon my shells and feel so blessed

Those Sarasota summers were the best!

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, The Edge

Burn

The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis. Dante Alighieri

Black woman dared
climb above white men
Silenced hatred
Led away
in handcuffs
Black churches
burn to ashes
Barely make the news
Black men
black boys
shot by white police
again
We shake our heads
Baltimore burns
with anger
and hopelessness
We turn off the TV
Hell is on the way
It's coming for us.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Flash 55 Plus

60 Words

Ashes to forehead
Hand to the fire
Mold your own morals
Whatever's required

Pray to your God
Know that he'll hear
Hate all the others
The ones that you fear

Enter the church
Wearing your sin
Sit near the preacher
Welcomes you in

Spit out old hatreds
Blue, white, and red
They offer love
You shoot them dead.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Words Count with MZ, 

Leave a Message

image by Sarolta Ban 

She calls the number every day

just to hear his voice on their  answering machine

Her friends and the kids say

that it's been long enough

that it's time

but she can't erase the message

It's all she has left of him

After all,

his scent has faded

from his clothes and the bed linen

She no longer gets startled

when she awakens alone

So she clings to this last piece

She won't make him a ghost

at least, not yet

She listens to him say

"Leave your message after the tone"

She pauses, then

whispers "I love you."

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Tuesday Platform and
Magpie Tales, Mag 274

Men

Men who act like children

We see them every day

Perpetual adolescents

Shout and tease and play

Complain about their bossy wives

Always on their tail

But when they get arrested

Who comes to pay the bail?

Men behaving like children

Serve only to annoy

Women want a grown ass man

Not a little boy!

submitted for Magpie Tales, Mag 273
and for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Flash 55 Plus

Forget Me Not

Wild Violets for Mother's Day
painting by artist Paul Wolber

Pink carnations at the prom

White lilies for the wedding

Roses on the five tier cake

The petals on their bedding

Honeysuckle in the yard

A garland on her head

Daisies in the garden with

the tulips bright and red

Perfume scented lavender

with just a touch of clove

Tucked within her diary

Saved mementos of her love

Violets pressed between the pages

from another life

Faded into memories

when she became a wife.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Bits of Inspiration, Floral Explosion

Floating

photo by Toni Frissell 

Beyond repair

I drift back home

Some say life

began in water

that existence was crafted

out of a soup

So I chance to return

add my frame to the mix

Bones are a good beginning

I will keep the obol

locked in my teeth

Ride the sea's billows

ready to deal my way 

across the last river

Perhaps I will hear

the mermaids sing

Add my voice

to the sirens' call

Perhaps

the fiery despair

that burns my heart

finally will be extinguished

Even if

I wander the banks

of nothingness 

a wraith 

for one hundred years

What does it matter?

I am already a ghost.

submitted for Magpie Tales, Mag 272, Sunday Whirl, Wordle 205, and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Tuesday Platform

Beneath the Violets

source

Although he should have know he would get caught

His boundless arrogance encouraged him

He couldn't understand how he got got

Male vanity so often makes wits dim

Desirous of both the sun and shade

Well, you know how that greedy story goes

His rendezvous deep in a forest glade

He thought it secret but we know talk flows

They both confronted him with all his lies

Dried tears upon their faces cold as stone

Where trust no longer flourishes, love dies

For all his sins, he never could atone

He's buried in their yard beneath the lawn

The violets now grow brighter since he's gone.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Sunday Challenge, Bout Rimes

Beginning Witchery

witch by MercuroBCotto

Shannan entered the scene just as Lola finished the spell:
"I warned you to stop catcalling women on the street! Now I'll turn you into a newt!"
Shannan assessed the man, now reptile, and sighed
"You better practice your spells. This is a skink, not a newt!"
Lola countered
"Skink, newt, same difference. He's got 4 legs and a tail."
"Well, by that logic, you may as well have turned him into a toy poodle!" Shannan fumed
"Sloppy spells come from an undisciplined mind. You need to focus, Lola!"
"Quit hounding me, Shannan! You're such a perfectionist!"
And with that, Lola pointed at Shannan and mumbled some incomprehensible words
"Ha! How do you like that, Ms. Perfect?!! I turned you into a frog! Now go hop away and leave me alone!"
The amphibian, formerly human, stared at Lola and spoke in a perturbed monotone
"I'm a toad, you nitwit."

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads,Tuesday Platform