Blue Sky Desert

Red Meat Cowboy

 

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

Extra! Extra! Pope Sells 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

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….

My Cousin It

 

 

Thanks to ElBeardo at Build-A-Beard.com for photo.

 

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.

Branch Balance Ballet Duet

 

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.

 

 

 

Morning Predilection

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

All Caterpillars are Free

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For April

 

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.

 

After The Bon Fire

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

Soul Speak

doorheart

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