White Mice

photo courtesy of Rosie Hardy

...and then they led her back to her cell. Her eyes burned; her skin itched. Yellow pus oozed out of a hastily sewn incision on her abdomen. As they locked the door behind her and crawled off, she thought she heard them say, "Don't worry. Their brains are so tiny, they can't feel any pain."

submitted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry

Icarus Also Flew

photo courtesy of Chris Galford

Paint cans in hand

We rule the night.

Urban fireflies we burn

Bright. We buzz

We hum. We leave

Our mark against the sky.

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.

The day is not so kind.

Hot sun burns our skin.

Hot words spit in faces

Burn our spirits to ash

Black as the streets where

We escape.

See our words erased

Our images whitewashed.

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.

Sundown comes.

Night calls us like a pheromone.

Paint cans in hand

We stretch our wings, aching to fly.

Some day they'll see us.

Some day we'll reach the sun.

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.

submitted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry

Please Leave a Message

photo courtesy of Rob Hanson

She dials the number

Ring, ring, click

Hello. You have reached...

Closes her eyes and listens to his voice

We are not able to take your call right now...

The kids say it's morbid, like hearing a ghost

But to her, his voice is like

a warm blanket 

and her bed is so cold

Please leave a message after the tone...

I miss you, she tells him.

submitted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry

The Bootmaker

photo courtesy of Rob Hanson

Who will fill his shoes when he is gone?

His dye stained hands are leathery as the hide

The hammering fills the hours from dusk til dawn

He has no one with whom to share his pride.

His daughter left his home in rage and tears

He never even knew that she was wed

Never met his grandson of three years

She tells the kid his grandfather is dead.

The older sons both went to fancy schools

Now they shun the work he does by hand

They have no use for all his simple tools

He does his best to try to understand.

His youngest son is practically a ghost

He's heard some folks refer to him as trash

But he's the one who favors her the most

So when he asks, he always gives him cash.

Who will fill his shoes when he is gone?

Who will tan the leather, cut the size?

The bootmaker keeps working on and on

No one to replace him when he dies.

submitted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry

The City

image courtesy of Scott Wyden

For him there was no prom

He walked across the stage at graduation

There were a few claps

And a few more snickers

He packed his bag, hugged his mom

And left

He had no delusions

That he would be better loved

In the city

But at least there

He could find

Places to hide

submitted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry

and a belated Friday Flash 55

Prince Morphine

photo by Fee Easton

Rode up on your white horse

I was face down in the mud

Said, "Hey, man, wanna buy a girl a drink?"

Offered me your gloved hand

Fixed me up real nice

Asked me to come home with you

I didn't  think twice

I wanted a Prince Charming

But I got you instead

I got Prince Morphine

Sleeping in my bed

Asked for a dozen roses

You tucked a poppy behind my ear

You sing me lullabies until my passion's doused

Your sheets are real soft

But your love makes me itch

I don't feel the pain no more

But I don't feel shit

I wanted a Prince Charming

But I got you instead

I sleep with Prince Morphine

I feel like I'm dead

submitted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry

photo prompt by the remarkable Fee Easton

Transitions

image courtesy of Greg Laychak

The homes of old people smell

Of cooked cabbage

And decorative soaps

But that's better than the stale urine

And disinfectant smell

Of nursing homes

I wonder whether they can smell it on themselves

The odor of decay

Dependence

Approaching death

How does the peach tree judge

When a peach has passed from lush to

Overripe to

Rot?

Is the peach aware 

Of the moment it will be dropped from the tree

To the ground below?

submitted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry

London Daydream

image courtesy of James Rainsford

Touchdown at Heathrow

London love affair is born

Oxford aspirations

West End wishes

Topped with chocolate sponge pudding

 Her rural southern roots

Confine her

Like a prisoner in a tower

She dreams of escaping Underground

To emerge speaking the Queen's English

"Stop"? 

Oh no. She's just beginning.

submitted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry
also for Poetry Potluck-Favorite Things

Neurologic Ballet

image courtesy of  Roger Allen Baut

Silvery thin threads

Dance an electric boogie

Nervous energy

submitted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry

No Blindfold

image by Fee Easton 

Welcome to the new America

You may be Red

Or you may be Blue

But we're all Red, White, and Blue

True patriots!

Home sweet Homeland Security

and good fences make good neighbors

but nuclear weapons will clear out the whole neighborhood

Never mind the fallout

We all have our Potassium Iodide tablets

We wear our RFIDs proudly

Like American flag pins

We have nothing to hide

Scan our fingerprints

Scan our eyes

You won't find anything behind them but fear

We kill the new witches

The dangerous bitches

Who gather in covens singing songs, reading poems

And laughing

Who aren't afraid to see

Who aren't afraid to die

Who ask for

No blindfold and

Three cigarettes.

submitted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry