The 30 Seconds Before Christmas

Glowing, not flowing, hopefully it's snowing
Don't move a muscle in case that was the sound of bells

Soaring, not snoring, counting sheep is way to boring
I think the large package under the tree is a guitar or a bike

Laying, and praying, that my cousins are not staying
They always break my new stuff before I get a chance to play

Sleeping, dawn creeping, closed eyes prevent my peeping
Having to be awakened by my dad after an hour of sleep

Christmas comes when Christmas comes

We Tulips

First kiss, first Kiss song, first kiss off, first
These stretch marks, these tree rings, these giant hands
He, she, she, me, we, dancing
Getting life precisely right, combining ingredients

Relaxing with my Thoughts

By the time the words went from lip to ear

It was much too late to gather the dogs
If it were a whisper or an urging, fine, but….
Your thin lips and constant evangelizing sicken

Soul

Spitting
Snap, snap

The ghosts come in clear and concise

And crawl my thoughts like zombie mice
The greatest thing I’ll ever do
Is hold my breath and catch a clue

Worth

Less
Snap, Snap

One more dinner in the company of strangers

Parents with more important nothing on their minds
My day? Jesus loves me this I know….
Green beans do not pair well with angst

Eating

Glass
Snap, Snap

The thoughts at night are clean and crisp

And speak the truth without a lisp
I listen hard and think I hear
The reality that you hold so dear

Over

Out
Snap, Snap

My Day





Maya Deren



For Susie's Challenge at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads

It wasn't like the day leaked
It was rubbery and naked
Dancing wasn't an option
Do you hear what I'm saying?
Full of truth and knocked about
But it didn't leak

Day Tripper

Tilted and full of grace like a perfectly balanced sandstone boulder

She entered my eye and I bathed in synaptic beauty

Her march south was supposed to stop in the heartland

A life would be built and beauty created from thin air

But the brakes failed, a downward spiral past heart and intuition

Only to lodge squarely in the valley of pleasure and infatuation

A man's aura dies and what is left is post coital breathing

Written for the Sunday Mini Challenge at The imaginary Garden with Real Toads

Good Decisons or The Ballad of the Orange Jumpsuit

For Flash Fiction 55...Its hard to keep my mouth shut...55 words, really?? 

 

     That shit stole the Bee Gees cassette from his car, and here's the thing, it's not like he couldn't afford his own. His dad works at Bonanza and his mom sold Avon. He took a drag from his cigarette, flipped the butt and shifted the tire iron to his other hand. Smoke this mother fucker.

Buying a New Day

Reflecting and not so softly on a life in limbo
Causes a person to check his pockets for coin
Buying clarity isn't the same as tripping over it
Cheap plastic focus glamour's the quick fix
Only to return a man to the starting blocks
Cursing the broken piece you can't find on Craig's List.

My Space

 

 

Favim.com

 

For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads Friday Challenge by Kerry O'Connor. Sorry for the Snafu Kerry.....but I love the prompt.

 

 

Living in a shadow doesn’t cause blindness or stop the body from growing. It can cause pale skin and depressed vitality if one sees the shadow as a dark cloak oppressor or soul sucking shroud that doesn’t match any of the skirts your mother bought you for school. Living in the shadow can be religious.  Living in the shadow can be secure. Living in the shadow can be comfortable. She stayed mostly at the edges, reaching out with milky white fingers when a piece of tissue paper life floated by.  In the center of the dimness, she built a collage out of experience that was as fabulous as any of the world’s wonders. She placed her heart in the center and gave life to a shadow universe that coursed and breathed in ways that the children of the light could not understand.  And when it came time to leave the protection of the shadow, sunglasses and a hat provided solace from prying eyes and curious thought processes until she could return to the snugness of the shadows womb.

“You’re weird.”

“No, I am black.”

“Whatever.”

Getting to Know Mother

Its hard to express the desire
That woman dressing by lantern light
Tent flaps closed, rock candy silhouette
Playing underwater freeze tag with my libido

Red vines on a midnight stroll
Jealous twangs as we speak of old loves by the light of the fire
Wine from a plastic cup is sweeter
Grabbing hold of the moons porcelain handles and flying

The grip loosens somehow and talk is what there is
And if we learn something new it will take
Death comes when we take for granted
The sunlight that bathes the Mother's face

Until Then

  Blow the feather, blow the feather, not too hard, not too soft.  An occasional scooch of my buns to the left or the right.  This my spot on the stoop, a wooden stoop, the kind with splinters. The kind you don’t sit on when you are wearing your “show it all off” shorts.

     Blow the feather, blow the feather.  The feather drifts perilously close to the end of my nose.  Pigeon feathers are easy to find, but my dad says that the fluff from a magpies ear works the best.  He gave me this one, though I don’t know where he got it. A curling tendril of the fluff flirts with the corner of my upper lip, not touching or maybe touching, tickling just the same. If I sweat too much in the afternoon sun, the feather might stick.  My feather, my sweat, my splintery stoop.

     Blow the feather, blow the feather. Yelling, banging, complaining, moaning, I hear it.  In there, inside the house, I am not very good.  It is here, on the stoop, that I rule. The smell of barbecue might be strong, but strong enough for me to let the feather land? Maybe for  ribs, if watermelon comes next, or strawberry shortcake.

     Blow the feather, blow the feather. It’s not that I don’t notice the green of the grass, or the way the dandelions are perfect little suns, or the entire zoo of clouds that march by in the late spring sky. The sky is so bright, the black of my feather standing out like Uncle Ben, the only white man in his Memphis jazz quartet.  I see things alright. I soak them in like Maribell, the psychic down the street, without really having to notice them full on. It gives me strength like a superhero, easily holding the universe aloft with my breath.

     Blow the feather, blow the feather. Two hundred and ninety-two, just thirty shy of my record. My mom calls through the ratty screen door, it’s time to go.  Twenty-four short. Mom bursts out the door with a squeak, a rattle and a bang, her foot kicking the small of my back as the feather floats gently to the sidewalk in front of the stoop.  My stoop, my feather. I pick it up and put it under an upside down tuna fish can under the lowest step. What’s more important, the feather or my dance lessons? I can’t decide at that moment.  Tomorrow I will surely blow the feather until it is time for dance lessons, maybe I will know by then. Until then, I dance.

Victoria y Allegra

The first two rays of the island sun turned to drops at high tide
Those eyes handed down like mothers jewelry, two girls, papas smile
The transition between sea and soul, sand to feet, is incalculable
Spiritually heavy, the skies are likely to give way to rains enchantment at any time

"Oma, can we go jumping?
"Yes, but only for a awhile."
"Nonna, can we go swimming?"
"Si mija, but only for a little while."
The hours pass and sun bleached curls grow too fast, too complete

The island tree is not the root, but an anchor to be reeled in, reset
When the fish stop feeding and the sand has been raked into Mexican destiny
There will be other places that girls can fill times sand pail
Until then, the island soothes with unending breezes that whisper, home and heart

"Mama, can we have helado?'
"Si baby, maybe tomorrow."
"Papa, can we ride in the boat?"
"Si amor, maybe this afternoon."
The sea tells you about the past daily, you listen and hope for the best

You plant the seeds, and rake the sand and in due course
The island becomes the blood pumping through burgeoning hearts and minds
A soul mate for all time and a brother who will steer the skiff true and straight
New beginnings are sad until they become home and we find the key to life still fits the lock

To the One.....

To the one who ate what was put in front of him

And played solitaire for hours at Grandmas house

Wondering if fathers were a painted figment

Imagination runs rampant with the need for touch

To the one who hop scotched delicately

Drawing pictures of hearts and families unbroken

Finding the path with small hands and no compass

Navigating shark infested waters with floaties and a stick

To the one who spat in conventions mouth

Writing rulebooks inked in common sense and not dogma

Walking lines that broke left to lifes bounties

Using the muddy shoes to plant grapes for wine

Finding self is a task best left to the fates, they'll ring you

Flexing muscles of the heart and soul intuitively

Provides a verdict that rings with freedom and light

Blissfully aware that neither place or time are the hammer's blow

Watershed Moment

Twilight was a baby then, bald and blue
Not as deep as it is today, but still fanciful
Built from blossom pigments, purple and black and wild
Fifteen night gulls quickly hung stars in jest, nightly
It was spiritous then, unmanufactured, salt
You said a crevice was a crevice, a mountain tortured
I sighed and spoke of moon and a monsters heart
Baby doll I sang, baby doll
You never wept and I knew
Twilight would be mine alone

Plunging

For Grapeling's 2014 Challenge #1, use nine words he picked from one of DH Lawrence's poems and construct your own.  Here we go.



His wants were a wedge designed for driving...please
Fine and spidery were the intentions borrowed from love's threshold
A subtle chaos varnished with liquid desire and keen as the sharpest knife
Spoil the man with a wayward glance and the stalking and groping begins


"Your beauty is beyond compare."
"There are three as lovely in this room alone."
"They taste like brown bread baked seven days hence."
"Somebody should put you out of your misery."
"Only you and only you."

Winged with brightly colored feathers he soars in lusts direction
Somebody forgot to tell him her desire wasn't as thick
A subtle shift of desires, current no longer lifts
And death seems certain when the hearts noose is too taught

Plunging....