even as the bluejay warns, spine tingles
a beast barks, exhausted senses mingle heavy in the magnetic force down dog solar plexus aimed at earth clears fog
the poisons writhe thick upon sweet air i’m
the canary in the mine, see what’s there: crime against our moral ground been here before a spiritual war my sovereign core
perceives the matrix glitch this déjà vu
rises ancestral trauma ringing through manipulated stories stupefy i do not pay attention and–surprise
reclaim my energy. My focus buys
love, give and receive the wealth in the skies on sacred ground, through fire and water, mint intentional, creative investment.
Inspired by: Magnet, Stupefy, Plexus and . Déjà vu
Featured image: Lilypods succumbing to a poison warned me to flee, not before I got a lungful.
Clank your chains and count your change. Try to walk the line. Did you say your name was Ramblin’ Rose?~Noel Sherman
I tend to enclose flow when I’m hangry
confusing juice for food, gut-stuff angry so useful for fuel, but it makes me sick I worry so, intuitive and thick
each electrical connection insists
I pay and though my new training resists the old ways persist. My suffering, clear, is ancient. So queer its reach and grip here
in the present I gift myself with tears
allowing the ramble roses and thorns cut quick in the midst blaring my own horn in my gentle way. Just look in my eyes
the hurt of your judgmental critique–how you despise–
so here I breathe and tune. Healing demands a spiral revisit of ships unmanned abandoned at the harbor. No one hears. The ghosts alone inhabit these old piers.
Inspired by: Hangry, Ramble, Enclosed and Tend.
Featured image: Peace rose blooming today.
You with the sad eyes, I see your true colors, show me a smile.~Cyndi Lauper
The mist on the lake rushes west past lawns
like dancers caught by unexpected dawn. Bedraggled, trailing, naughty defiant compliance, they must be juicy giants
though my filters deem them wraiths, vaporous,
pared down to brumous suppliants. Porous unheeding and quick to reach conclusions. At the shore they stick matter confusion.
I see my errors, clinging to a script
of what’s unquestioned. Entrainment equipped mind means I’m blind and deaf to what is here. Painstakingly I sort beliefs and clear.
Inspired by: Naughty, Filter, Juicy and Pare.
Featured image: As the sun rose, the mists fled faster. When I went out to photograph it, mother duck and her brood sped past, as well.
Many cultures around the world believe that a is a visitation by the soul of a deceased loved one. white moth
My mother’s dying wishes couldn’t fit
into the shibboleth of death’s toolkit doctors wielded. Shielded by CYA they poked and prodded, toxified to buy
stint in drug-filled haze, so thorough the dose
the ruction didn’t seem to faze. Who knows? She couldn’t speak before her final breath incandescent, luminous into death.
Now here beside the lake, taking a break
from packing, following the lists she’d make each morning while I’d compose morning praise, her songbirds sip and flutter, greet new days.
Thorough, Shibboleth, Incandescent and Ruction and this moth who came for the morning poem creation.
Just at dawn, currents of symbolic air
disunite the water’s borders. Beware misty apparitions rise and float pale and eery. A river of souls sets sail.
Inspired by: Symbolic and Disunite.
My apologies. This morning I was a bit frazzled, and since I’m unable to update Safari, WordPress won’t allow me to make any edits or use more than half a screen. So the first part of my poem today didn’t make it. And my links were all screwed up as well.
“He tilts their tired faces gently to the spoon….The wires in the walls are humming some song, some mysterious song, bars in her head beating frantic”~Joni Mitchell
My mother grows translucent as dawn’s sky
she misses every morning. Sleepless n ights
wracked with pain and only breath mastery
can bring control. There’s no relief in sight.
And even so she hobbles through this one
clear moment to the view seeking the sun
and blooms she’s planted, the window braving.
The ferns’ furcate venation, forks waving
soft sighs, romantic promises of life
eternal, lovely gentle green unseen
and all the angels’ wafture through the screen
could lighten and delight, could ease her plight
but energy is gone, the morphine calls and tiredly she slips out of pain’s thrall.
Inspired by: the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt “igh”, Symbolic, Venation, Frantic and Disunite.
Under the dull metal sky, I mist-walk
skin delights in warm drops. We sizzle. Talk erogenous zones. Sensuality rises to treasure life. Reality
comes furnished with story, yet nature’s glory
pregnant with bodacious charm, twists my arm. Here I find myself breathing even while struggling death is heaving, I can smile.
Inspired by: Pregnant, Erogenous, Furnish and Bodacious.
Early barefoot walk, scaring up geese, great
blue heron, half a moon, and sun’s east gate to song. It’s a new day. Fluttering white moth. I pray to be impervious light
as everything moves away, across, through
skies with ease I long for. Songbirds’ trills true and simple; the conglomerate no hate can touch, for fear is a construct, man-made,
and I am woman, strong. Concinnity
laud-glory poems praise sanguinity. Peace even as her old bones crepitate the crackle of death song they medicate.
Inspired by: Impervious, Conglomerate, Concinnity and Crepitate.
In the morning, I’ve already evolved
from last night’s poem, a springboard. How love propels us through unthinkable challenge. How we waken in subsequent balance.
I walk like a dancer, shaking my ass.
And it’s so wet, bare feet leave trails on grass. Shedding the controversy, reconcile. This open heart summons the nuanced smile.
Bolstered by coffee, so the headache’s gone
I’m ready for the journey. Bring death on its precipitous rushes and slow falls. I’m here alert, lucky to feel it all.
Subsequent, Nuance, Controversy and Precipitous.
Featured image: the snowball hydrangeas are blooming.
Making the shift before dawn, terrible
news confirmed. White coats ring a doomsday bell and everyone breaks down and cries. The fight, the lake, even the clouds gleam silver light.
Pragmatic, slow-cooking big slabs of meat,
the dying and the living still must eat. Placing ferns out to catch this misty rain before they come to cheer the house again.
I consult the death doulas, that special few
who graciously share their unique juju. We’re reaching the transition when each breath slow and calm may release her to sweet death.
Inspired by: Terrible, Pragmatic and Juju.