Daily Poetry & Prose

I grappled with the question I heralded the pain of not knowing what I always thought was accurate and the main reason that I covered it up was that I was afraid of the way that you would look at me if you felt that you got played. The mayor of the city of the beating of my heart is out to lunch and his desk is full of papers and layered stuff while the secretary is burning up another cigarette I went into his drawers and found the money to make this bet, that I would rise and remember the fear inside my heart and crush it like an orange peel each time that it might start. I focused on the fading light at sunset just to see the tiny bit of hope that is still alive in me. 

Grim reaper fairy tales soup chills ships sail free money draws glances feet tapping silent dances monster rivers carve canyon green trees breeze abandon Young tumble dirt face sigh heavy win race

I don't need poetry prompts I am a renegade queen I am never stumped I am a team of green dragonflies soaring into the cloudy valley the bog of nonsense is my home. How dare I try to make sense? How conceited, how vain I should only wish to spew loose pearls into the rain I should only hope to grind the saw blade and all into the wood.

Panting panthers passed me by while I was sleeping on the jungle floor my back against the dirt and a thousand plants bent down for a bed The paintings on the caves will last for tens of thousands of years my bones for slightly less In them is the story which time cannot erase the clay hand the shaman the girl in the tunnel may I be her one day.

 If you are a good singer you can sing in the rain you can laugh with the birds open mouthed  you can dance in the thunder and slip underneath the rug where the dust lies If you are a good banker you can save your dough you can count your change in your back pockets and never give a thought to bills but you can't wait for me at the corner to trade out our free will If you are a good singer you can find your voice tell him how you feel and raid the pantry for rice at your wedding you can take the team of horses to the bitter winter where you can live in the cabin far from anyone  and sing

Waiting in the hungry morning for the sign of life in the cemetery waiting for the bees to start to buzz and the fog to lift waiting for the shoes to shuffle waiting for the bus waiting for the door to swing, small hinges covered in rust waiting for the stream to turn  waiting for the canyon to form waiting for the comet to take light years to cross the universe to become a smudge of a star waiting

When hanging by a thread the thread twists and the needle burns When skipping on the sidewalk the rock gets stuck in the bottom of my left shoe The dream when dreaming  is the language of the Gods many headed hydra watering the yard

She's doing tai chi under the bridge as it's raining. I'm snipping six pack rings in half,  seagull safety sounds subtle yet fierce. Her position is of the crane a tiny book she made of men drawn by hand She loves to have tea and smiles so sweetly like it's an effort to break free.

 The chasm I can fathom when I close my eyes to dream The canopy of shady branches shaking leaves breeze The magnitude of earth and sky moving as it does To escape the greatness of what never was Alas dear reader weep and dream And with a stick In the sand paint a line on the beach for me 

Canyons of crayons made these colors speak

Loaded down with leather aching in the sun another round through the canyon carrying rum and guns The adobe walls of the mission in the distance the reverberation of the bells in the sweat-stained heat the tower the stark light the dust the hooves what burdens is he asked to carry? he does all without question In the same way we carry our worries through this whole world without a word

The rest and the in-between sunshine The trees and the distant sand Stone sculpture and liquid scripture Swirling in the sky while the plane lands Stars and sleep the meaning of dreams The ouija board with my fingers pressed Eyes closed thinking of the answer As another wave crests 

 The moment when the woman is on the side of the stage snapping to the beat with a look of stagnant exhilaration. The black piano shiny under the lights. The saxophone player sounds like money. I watched the Maxwell Street Klezmer Band perform under the lights. I controlled the lights I made them lavender or amber. I wanted to take a picture. Then I thought to write a poem. Why capture everything in some digital way, some photo that will sit on a thumb drive for infinity. Why not capture the moment. Some good old fashioned rhapsody. Some intelligence built in.