sits tall on his horse
all brown, sweat glistening
down his neck from behind
his ears, from his forehead
chewing in dry sun like cows
chew brush the vultures sit on
where the flies hangs loose
in the morning still damp from the dark.
Chewing tobacco, chewing cud.
High stakes in the back country
branded round rib eyes stare
Marbled from the fat of the land
in a desert filled with a single daffodil
No shade in the trickling water
He rounds them up -
makes the whites come out
Lady Jay and Bertha are sitting side by side getting pedicures and catching up on Lady J’s news.
Lady Jay: He never left me.
Bertha: Intoxicating, isn’t it?
Lady Jay: He never left me for reasons I don’t know. He stayed secret and knew all of mine.
Bertha: They say love never sleeps. Maybe it was love that he watched over you like that.
Lady Jay: I gave him his watch back.
Bertha: What was it?
Lady Jay: It was a silent one. You could sleep with it and never hear the ticking against your ear at night.
Bertha: A digital one, then.
Lady Jay:It could have been. It was disguised as a wind up one though. It looked antique.
Bertha: A fake then.
Lady Jay: Perhaps, yes. Fake love, fake watch. But my secrets were never fake.
Bertha: Secrets never are. Makes the pope look good.
Lady Jay: Didn’t make me look very good.
Bertha: Depends on who you are. Are you the kind who goes giving the pope what he wants?
(A moment of silence lapses. Bertha picks up a magazine.)
Bertha: Look at this, says here the pope sold out. He sold his confessions to The Onion.
Lady Jay: What? I never knew a priest to let loose like that. Let me see that.
(Bertha hands her the article)
Lady Jay: Says they’re changing pope’s title to Hope instead of Pope. That capital P was supposed to stand for the people. We don’t have that any more.
Bertha: Gotcha…all we have is pure genuine hope now.
God Is A We Thing
Indentation of finger pokes on my skin.
I didn’t feel them at first.
Didn’t know they were there.
Then I saw the fingerprints.
They made my skin crawl
with bugs from the bottom of the pot
at the bottom of the hill,
behind the mountain, past the forest,
way past the forest in a field of rainbow grass.
Where they’re born, I guess.
They crawled in the circled crevices printed on my skin.
I lifted them and set them to the lab.
She identified and confirmed, and then ate them,
licked them off the slide. Said they’re the best
delicacy searched by chefs for the past hundred years.
Who was it that touched me, she asked.
I said I didn’t know, but I felt the pressing in every nerve
of my body and then I saw them crawl up the walls.
They spelled my name and then they wrote
We Love You
That’s when I collected each one by one by one by one….
It is a mingle of creativity with a dark side, say an oatmeal stout with bright streamers pouring out the top. One can say it is the stout that doesn’t belong or that the streamers don’t belong. Either way, the two are combined and visible and talked about, pondered over and then forgotten. Or not. Might come up again by chance in the rain or a dream or never at all.
How I’d like to sing with you, on the highest branch without wings or halos or marching batons, just sit on the strongest bough and let our feet dangle while we live eternal inside and outside of heart songs. We’ll skip our thoughts out like stones, see if we can reach the horizon.
I remember when you asked me about skateboards, said I, whose only connection to such things was my big red girl dog who loved to chase and eat them.
The sun will rise into the blue sky, come pouring like the aqua blue waves over the rocks. Remember when it splashed me in the eyes and woke me up. I saw you next to me and smiled. The sun will rise tomorrow and come pouring through the blinds without you.
writing prompt: The Sun Will Rise
Tis to the future I look up with swollen red eyes.
My breath steadies in the shade of a shadow
pressed against the wall of muddy sand packed dry,
I see the round cone of a castle holding up in the wind.
A man appears as if the wind pushed him there.
Don’t cry, he tells me. I say, why not, and wipe my nose.
Hold out your hand, he instructs. Puts a wriggly caterpillar
in the middle of my palm. I feel its tiny legs crawl along,
searching for a leaf up my arm. It reaches my shoulder,
then my neck, up my cheek, checks the snot dripping
off my lip. I feel it step up on my eyelashes onto my lid,
over my eyelid. Across my eyebrow, it finds a spot
in my hairline just above my ear. I hear it tell me its name.
“Gratis, pleased to meet you,” I whisper back.
Taking his hand in mine, I ask the man which way to the trees?
Pointing to a large piece of driftwood, he says, that’s all there is.
Perhaps truth stood dormant in the execution
To sound down partitions to her brain.
Soaked, drenched, pattern-triggered thoughts
Drain a parched sister’s dying memories.
Whisking away eggs of golden seeds
Into the spring air on a windless night.
Listen to them dance in the moonlight
Leaning on each other in a straight line.
Noon heat cooks them even and hot.
Oven timer ticking away in the kitchen
Tapping out the final pop of the last kernel.
Damn the routine sounds pounding her
Ears, ringing the alarm bells she
Smashed with a hammer swinging hard
To make the words tell the story of how
Rich dirt feels between finger and thumb.
Over the rainbow never felt so close in the
Year of the horse’s tale.
May she please, with dirty face and weathered hands,
Excuse herself from tripping over the line.
This poem was inspired from the prompt: How Poetry Saved My Life…
The words swirled confused on my doorstep
in a warm wind after the coldest part of winter
passed over like the giant span of dragon wings
held out to cover a cold noon sun.
I opened my mouth with awe when I opened the door
and they came floating to me out of thin air on ice,
like snowflakes twirling at the lake all grey-blue.
I gathered them around and strung them in between
the strands of twinkling white lights in the house.
There they glowed like how magic glows in love with
spirited smoke rising up from the groin through the
middle of our bellies, fills our hearts, and dissipates
through my fingers to write this poem through an open window.
Thrown out like a line to save whoever is on the ledge left
standing all alone after everyone went home to their mothers.
~Persha’s Typo 2.19.14