Tuesday, June 30, 2009
I've been looking through old pieces. I also took photos of the water fountains downtown. One inspired a new collection. So I am combining previous pieces and new ones to make a poetry book. I plan to have it done by the end of July or the beginning of August. I think that would be a nice personal project. Here is the cover art I made from one of my fountain photos.
I am also going to do a poetry/jewelry book. Many of my jewelry pieces have names. So I will do a poem in conjunction with the piece. Some already have poems over on my gallery.
Cherry Blossom by JL Denman 3/27/07
He was buried under the cherry blossoms but he wasn't exactly dead. He wasn’t exactly dead... I smiled at the thought./ Exactly dead meant so many things. So many ends. But not EXACTLY dead meant there were so many places things beginnings left. I smirked at that.
He was always so smug. Smug, rude, vile. Dead would be far to good a state for him. Instead not exactly suited my purposes. My purposes? What exactly would you like to know of my purposes? No, I am no loon, traipsing through the world on the slippery edge of sanity. Some people may think so, but the insane never know sanity. I on the other hand had no problems distinguishing the two. I just happen to enjoy the sadistic, the dark, the rude, the wild, the OH my Goodness- well, in my case, the oh my badness! And he, there, buried beneath the cherry blossoms, he liked to play along- a masochistic nut job that enjoyed a dastardly joke.
So which of us would be insane? The inflictor or the inflictee upon who gets off on it? Either way, here we are in the downtown park, broad daylight, him buried under the cherry blossoms, and I holding the shovel what plowed him under. It is a hoot! It’s an experiment. How long can he stay there without losing it? How long will I stand around waiting for the tiny bell to ring? How long and how many passers by will look, stared, gawk but keep on moving about in their own clouded deluded funks and fogs?
I’m nearly finished with the second chapter of the new novel I started. He, there buried under the cherry blossoms, helps me with my writing. When he’s in pain, I’m in glory. When he’s stretched out, I’m wound up. We’re a pair, we are. Sun and moon. Light and dark. Sane and insane. Then again all truly good couples are.
I’ve finished another chapter, taken a nap, dreamed up another torturous plight for my crazed lover.
A short ringing. A light twinkle. A slight shift in the cherry blossoms. I stand. He claws. We smile. Home we go. He trails cherry blossoms and grave dirt.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Notes: I hid under the desk, wishing I was smaller, wishing I could disappear altogether.
Why is she/he hiding? Who's trying to find her? Why?
They say we¢ll be around forever. The bomb didn¢t get us. The spray didn¢t burn us. The whole world dies and we, we little munchers, get to survive and chew and gnaw on the bloody, yummy bits. My brother, well, he learned the hard way that they, those giants out there with the microscopes and white coats and thick rimmed bottled looking eyes, were wrong!
Oh sure we survive. The race survives; it always does. But that don¢t amount to a hill of dung or rat drips in the grand scheme of my little self. Who cares if a race survives when you ain't there to scurry around with the rest of the minis? So! so what, I sound selfish? Think about it, you don¢t want to be some bitty runt dead at the bottom of the cosmic shoe. Do you? NO you don¢t! No shoe ridge filler for you! No boot heel mish-mash. No potato mash guts for you. YOU want to survive. Don¢t you? We all do.
Yet you force me to sit here hiding beneath that noise box. Scared to death that death will come for me. Yep, come right on for me, a giant smoosher ready to grind my exoskeleton to pulp. Oh, except I don¢t get that graceful, martyr-esque death that you all watch so much on those damnable plipping boxes with the electronic clicker! Oh, no glory and bravado and praises for me and my kind, not that I care too much about the rest of my kind in perpetuity since I won¢t see 'em no time soon if you have your blasted way! I get no 21 gun salute. I get gassed, stomped, beheaded. Smooshed and swatted with brooms and big boots- my head lying 3 inches away and my body scurrying around trying to find it Real funny, funny death for me! Pull off a leg! beat me with it! Stab me with the left over wing tip! Kill me, I¢m your lowly crunching boy! Thank ya massa!
Or it¢s death by that oh so wonderful, oh so threateningly looming, every expanding white crinkled up flimsy tissue thing. We weren't frightened by such flipery once upon a time. Oh what that don¢t hurt us. We¢ll survive a nuclear bomb! HAHAH, the last laugh was on Freddy. Freddy died at the hand of one of those white omens of death and gut spewing!
So you and your fine tall folks keep on spraying and stomping. I sit here under a piano wishing I were smaller, wishing I were invisible. The INVISIBLE INVINCIBLE ROGUE ROACH OF APARTMENT 747.
The Courtship of Medusa part I by JL Denman (talula)
"Are you utterly daft?
"You have no idea what you’d be getting into!"
"Of course I do. I’m not afraid."
"You should be."
"Look at me. Who should I be afraid of? There’s no one more hideous, except possibly the Elephant Man. Few are stronger except maybe Superman, but he’s a top side pretty boy. Certainly mortal."
"It’s dangerous. Life and death dangerous. I’m already dead even I would think twice, three times before doing something that crazy."
"Because you still need blood. Blood can still freeze, turn."
"True. This is suicide though, Frankie. You’re a big boy alright but you still have to eat which , last time I checked, makes you ‘alive’ and therefore there whole thing is dangerous. If not for you, then certainly the rest of us!"
"Not with a mask."
"Masks won’t help us if we look at her!"
"A Mask for her." He was exasperated. Even with his mind slowing he could figure that much out. Drac was being paranoid.
"She’ll never go for it. She’s a beast!"
He shrugged. "We all are>"
"true enough. But even beasts want to stay ‘alive!"
Frankie raised his protruding eyebrow ridge. He gave Drac a slow dropping sardonic smirk.
"Yes. Yes!. My good boy, I see the irony. But, that woman is a killer by choice or not. She’s uncontrollable. If you... if she... if just one of those little pets of hers gets feisty, the nearest ghoul could..."
Frankie slowly raised his stiff arms and grunted, "Maaa NAAAA AHHHH."
"Oh stop it! That stupid show you put on for those idiotic top side fleshies is not going to work on me and you know it."
Frankie plopped down on the concrete chair. Even it groaned under his weight. " You make me sick sometimes, you old bloodsucker."
"Look, Frankie, dating in the ghoul pool is slim pickings. I know! Why do you think I go around creating my own den of demon girls?" He chuckled. "But, this, this idea of yours, is just insane! That woman- thing- beast- she’s on her own secluded island with her wicked sisters for a reason."
"But nothing. Even if SHE allowed you within ten feet of her, her sisters would politely rip your sorry corpse back into its pieces. Of course provided looking at you doesn’t freeze you dead. We’ve not established that you ARE immune, you know."
Frankie conked his forehead against the concrete table.
"Bashing out the few brains you have isn’t going to do you any good."
Frankie’s head smashed through the table. In two pieces, the slab split. The noise reverberated off of the stone wall’s
"I want her. HER!" Frankie’s frustration rumbled in his big barrel chest.,
"I know you’re disappointed with your maker. You had every right to destroy him and that she devil he created for you. But this? This is reckless."
Frankie stood and grabbed Drac by the throat. White fangs snapped. Long talon-like nails slashed as Drac struggled against Frankie’s wide, crushing grip.
"I’ll have her!" Frankie dropped Drac as quickly as he’d grabbed the vampire up.
Outraged blood foaming at the corners of his mouth. His eyes, hell fire red, smoked. In an instant he morphed into a giant bat and assaulted Frankie. Stiffly, Frankie fended off the great attack.
"Don’t ever do that again." Drac hissed and spit.
Frankie wiped the ooze from his face then slumped back into his chair.
"I’ll have her."
"Suit yourself you bag of dead bits and rot. I hope she kills you. IF you con kill a thing as hideous and dead as you already are!"
"You’re already dead, too. Most of us are." Frankie grumbled.
"But she’s not! What does that mean for the rest of us?" Drac flew out of the tower window. The Wolfman howled as he lead the pack over the grounds. Coffins, sarcophagi, bottles, urns, lamps spewed their contents as well, sending genie and vampires and ghosts and goblins amuck in the night time world.
But Frankie plotted. She wasn’t going to be an easy catch, particularly after that fiasco with Jason. The sisters would be much more vigilant. They probably had employed or threatened a whole army of harpies and Valkyrie to defend themselves. Frankie’s bolts sparked at the idea of Jason’s blade slicing through his loves throat. Wicked breeder! Then to carry her precious head to that hideous king! A stray bolt jolted the window casement. How to get to her and bring her back and keep every other ghoul fleshy, at least not stone...?
When the first cock crowed the residents of Castle Galdumeare wrestled themselves into their respective containers to await the first arms of darkness, The few, like Frankie, who were unconcerned with or not constrained by sunshine roamed the grounds or slept at will. Frankie simply locked live wires to his neck and recharged.
While electricity jostled his large, dull frame, it energized and galvanized his brain. Connected, hyped up on electric juice, Frankie felt as smart and sophisticated as Drac or the Swamp Thing. Get one of the flyers to do it or one of the class ten ghosts! Either would be capable of carrying my weight and hers. IF the flyers didn’t go too near the island, but dropped me into the ocean, they’d be unaffected. Since the class tens have no eyes in their gusty forms, they would likewise be unaffected. They might even be useful in dispersing the army the sisters surely had surrounding the island. Yes! Get the class tens but would they help?
*** to be continued*
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
AWw thanks Mary! I appreciate it! Sometimes you feel like just rattling off into cyberspace nowhere. Thanks for being there to read and encourage. I have fun visiting your blog!!!!
Here are the rules as posted on Mary's blog.
Sunflower Ranch blog
Mary Ann Gruen blog.
Silk Painting with Deborah Younglao
Shay Stone's Jewelry and Art Blog
Fleur Violette Jewelry
Queen of Torts
Friday, June 19, 2009
A letter. People wait for them in the mail, in email, in Forever Never Land where letters mean nothing but babble fish words and snap crackle pop. Some people wait for letters to tell them that lovers miss them dearly. Others - to spell death certificates to stop the suffering of an invalid. Some people wait for letters that the tax man is coming, breaking up a happy business.
The other day I wait for a letter to tell me I was special, to tell me someone out in the wide wild world was actually thinking of me. It never came.
B. It’s a bumpy letter with humps and curves. It’s the boob of the alphabet. Not the geek but the breast. See, B. Two knockers stuck up on a spinal rack.
I like B. It reminds me of me. Not a stick thin waif like I! No! I has no spunk. No curve no umph! It stands there like a gash in the mist of flowing letters. But B is perfectly lovely!
B. Yes! Now she stands there round and full. Even in her little form, b, has bounce and booty! Junk in her trunk and stuff above the muff!
B is bright, bodacious, booty-licious, brave, brazen, beautific.
B is my favorite letter of the alphabet!
For haiku Fridays these were my three this week.
Weeping willows tears
Dim marshes sultry essence
a southern deathbed
Blue crisp snow crunches
crystal cicles sparkle white
bleeding polar bears
Not half full round moon
raging werewolves rampant
ferial dreamings eat
|The Signs of Scylla|
This evoled as pices for 100words.com. The title stuck in my head this morning and I wrote the pieces to catch up on the dates I had missed for June 100words.
The Signs of Scylla by JLD 2007
The Signs of Scylla I learned way back as a child. They guided me through adolescence. They spurred me through college. They rushed me along early middle age. The Signs of Scylla are grounded in truths that no one person ever tells you but that you must learn in order to be complete and navigate a world that doesn't want you in it. This world wasn't made for you or me or people like me. No, it was made for those that are THEM. The white kind. The rich kind. The boy kind. Not my kind who is/ are/ were everything darker, brighter, more knowing, less adored.
Scylla devoured. She, I call her she because she is violent and warm and caring and destructive. Scylla is a water monster bent on protecting what she deems fit. Scylla is powerfully evil and good combined. She is a mighty teacher. She guides the way. She protects the way. She's fierce. Scylla is a violent teacher and a heavy taskmaster. Yet, her wisdom is carnal, infinite, truth barbed with beastliness. Scylla the two faced, many face, bitch destroyed and conquered. She teaches how to live in rampant waters among violent men on floating vessels who mistakenly think they are invincible.
Scylla the wicked beast of the sea, she is the teacher of would be harpies in modern world. She mothers us through history's waters. I followed her signs.
She told me long ago when I was little exactly what to do to survive. Hide. Oh it seems cowardly. Hide. Go behind, go under, go anywhere where the dark recesses will welcome you. Hide. Be silent. Keep still. Keep your guard up. But hide young one hide. Stealth is thy friend. They fear not what they do not know or care to see is there. Hide little girl, listen, gain strength.
Scylla did not stop. She spoke more. She growled, crunched more wisdom.
She taught a new sign, lesson. Creep child. Creep through the mists in the midst of them that would kill you. Creep. Wind thyself like wet serpents around and through the strong fortresses of them that would destroy you. Creeping is not cow towing. No, little one, little girl, it is learning to bend and not break. It is learning to slink through and to spy out that which they would hide from you. They keep their strength and knowledge away. But between themselves they blather and boast.
The Signs of Scylla are branded into the hearts and minds and teeth of we who know. We, the little girls, the black ones, the darker ones, the ones who know the underbelly. Scylla, she cares for us and we learn.
She told me later to ambush. Aw yes, to snatch and crush at will. To snap shut my jaws upon the unsuspecting Viking raging and ravishing my waters. Snatch them, little one. Make them fear you, but keep hidden who you is. Let them hear the howls of their fellows. Let them see the bloody tore bits. Bite them. Retreat. Kill them. Watch them shit their pants.
Scylla is a mother - vibrant, lethal. She's the serpentine witch that they all fear. She's loyal to her kind.
Little ones, my children, my water babies, my disheartened, disenfranchised seed, be true to your calling. Rip from the world those that spitefully use you and your kind. Grind them down. Tear them. Keep them always to your faces. Be sly, cunning, strong. Learn of them. Watch them. But be loyal to your own kind. Your kind will protect you. Your kind will guard your faces, your loves, your hearts. Keep your teeth from out of each other's backs! Be united!
Scylla, my devouring goddess, patron saint of destruction, sea wench. My loving devourer- I hear, pass on.
Your faces are you and not you. Your mouths are you and not you. Use them. Open wide your maws, spew the fetid stench of dead men's boney blood when your future enemies gather. Remind them, paint them in blood gore of their past glories. Your faces are many. You are what you show, whatever time you choose. You, my little Scylla's are not bound by singularity. Your faces are many use them to your advantage and to their demise. Learn, waterbabies, learn.
The Signs of Scylla keep our sea ways, us buoyant in sucking whirlpools. They keep us vibrant in dark grey squalls. The Signs of Scylla ground us in the fluid tangibility of rough waters and peaceful depths in ocean canyons.
The Signs are our sacred texts. They show the world. They enlighten the lost. They keep at bay the ragers of war, the destructors of souls, the polluters of air, the defilers of woman, child, darkness, communal progress. The signs of Scylla, the destructor, gird up the underbellies. The Signs of Scylla, the scales of justice, not mercy, protect us.
Fuel for the Soul 9/29/03
Hunger. A driving consuming need to feed. Nourishment and sustenance- the lack of which will cause unrelieved pain. Lack, hunger, unsatisfied desire. Hunger leads to self destruction. Original preservation transforms and mutates itself into self cannibalism. Stomach begins to feed upon itself. Acid chews through the lining to nourish the body’s other systems. Slowly, slowly the body kills itself to save itself. Gradually the original strength, vitality, luster, and cognizance fades, diminishes until a bland, wan shell remains.
Without God, the spirit of men and women do the same. Fuel for the soul- the essence that is human and Divine must be ingested. The word of God fuels the soul,. Word is life; it feeds and nourishes. They word through sermon, prayer, communion strengthens the spirit. Word instructs. It provides the needed substances to function properly. It allows the soul to "eat" and use its energy to build proteins. To apply meat. The instruction allows the soul to function within constructive limits.
Little Girl’s Dreams by JLD 8/7/07
PROMPT: Pencils, rulers, and chalk- use them in a piece NOT about school.
When I was a little girl I dreamed of knights in shining armor. I dream of men strong in battle fighting, fending off demons, enemies, and hordes. I dreamed that valiant men wore silver and sparkled in midday sun. I dreamed that they spoke in high language, that they spoke with fire, that they spoke with authority. When I was a little girl I thought the men were saviors in flesh. They championed the wronged. They buoyed up the weak. They saved society. They card for the widow the orphan the beggar the enfirmed the feeble minded. Men were men and stood mighty in the sight of creatures, human, and god. Men were men and died as men and lived again as legend and died never afterward. That was when I was a little girl and believed that somewhere men, people, society were some how good in some part and worth saving and worth the trouble to battle.
I used my chalk then to draw in the fine features. The bold lines of dreaming and faith. I drew my knights in chalk on sidewalks and house walls. I drew them on slips of paper. I drew them on napkins and paper place mats. I drew them secretly on cinder blocks in old bathroom stalls. I filled my world with chalk -bold knights. Fuzzy, large, idyllic in simplicity. Easily effaced.
When I was a grown girl, I dreamed that men were men and that I was their lady with flying handkerchief and weeping eyes. I dreamed that I was gorgeous and beautiful and that the fair gallant knights riding off to war would dream of me and gain strength. I dreamed that I was Helen, a thousand ships launched in my name, my honor, my command to protect the world, to tame the world, to bring peace to the world and true righteousness to the far reaches. A black African Helen, a Cleopatra not doomed to be destroyed by love from a man who knew only ambition and conquering for some fleeting glory of an already decaying empire. When I was a grown girl, I dreamed that men were true, honor bound, loyal, loving, caring and that I was their inspiration and wellspring. But that was when I believed that men valued women, that women were virtuous and powerful, when I believed men and women were two parts of one, individual and whole unto themselves but stronger and more complete when brought together.
I used my pencil then to draw knights with angry furrows and slavering mouths. I drew then precise. Their eyes squinting against harsh suns and foul winds but their smiles greedy with the blood they’d spill. Blood spilled not for good but for self importance and glory and ambition. I drew fine lines, fine lines detailing the ravage insignia they carved upon their once glowing armor. Now dragons’ teeth dripped with blood. Wolf fangs sank into innocent flesh. Tiger claws tore at baby flesh. I drew pencil fine knights everywhere. In scrap books. On pieces of napkins from restaurants. I drew them detailed and fine on the backs of church bulletins, on the backs of receipts, on parking tickets. I drew them with precision on doctor’s bills, prescription drug envelopes, on eviction notices, on welfare stubs. I filled the world with penciled mirrors of savage knights devouring society, the poor, the weak, the enfirmed. Hard sharp penciled lines. Not as easily effaced.
I formed a ruler. A diamond ruler, each quality etched and filled with fine gold. I held this ruler close to my heart. I held it out against enemies, evil, men. I held it aloft daring any to reach. They were all found lacking. Their feats of glory were in vain. Their gestures of love futile. Their soft seduction words ridiculous prattle. I held my ruler, diamond, gilded, high. I was no longer a little girl dreaming of nobility in men, no long a little girl who dreamed fidelity in men. I was no loner the grown girl who dreamed of her own power to foster loyalty and pride in men. I was no longer the grown girl dreaming herself beautiful enough to tug and turn ignoble heathenish savages to hallowed heroism. Instead I was a mighty avenger, Helen turned warrior princess, daring the pallid vapid ruthless knight to do battle. My ruler, turned diamond sword with fine gold increments, lured and stabbed dead.
But something happened. From behind, from a place unexpected. From a time a generation a thought so unusual, he came forth. His brilliance shattered the savage enemies . His radiant light and soul overpowered them, shattering splintering then dissipating them like so much nothing that they were.
My mighty diamond sword fell to the ground. It’s deadly point squared. My eyes raged over him. His stature brooked no assault. His eyes hid no malice. His smile did not drip with the blood and angry hearts of weak and feeble people. His armor was not stained or carved with viciousness. It was smooth, high-polished. It shone and reflected the sun.
His voice was tender, the voice of assured authority. It mixed and spoke with healing and caring. It sounded like the rushing waters over river rocks, not the harsh fall of water from killing heights. His words were thoughtful. He spoke when there was need to speak. He honored the word. He thought clear patterns before spilling words and wasting their power.
When he reached to tough my bloodied hand, his rough skin soothed. Small warm shivers caused the fine hairs on my arms and neck to rise. With them a soft moan rose from the wellspring I thought dried and killed by the early savages tearing up the world, the hearts, the love. He opened his arms wide, his broad shoulders carrying the goodness of a bygone and forgotten age when men were men and honored their women with true respect, care, and completeness.
"Come. Fighting is over. Lay aside your weapons, draw new images." He smiled tenderly.
I walked forward into a new age of glory where this man was a knight, where this man was noble, where this man was loyal, where this man was caring. An age where the grown woman believed in the power of her own soul to bring forth, draw forth from dark places the glowing knight that this man is.
Now I draw images with purple ink, royal majesty impossible to efface.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
breezes breathe over green grass blades.
Yellow and red poppies play in the field
children in short frilly pastel plaid tops & bottoms dig in fresh dirt
Afternoon birds chirp in full flowered branches
Puppies cuddly puppy dos wag excited tails
Sun tanned boys in frayed baseball caps toss sticks and play fetch
Ice cream truck bells chime in the distance
grandmothers in housecoats fumble for change
Pre-teen hipsters blare hot summer tunes from antiquated boom boxes
5 o' clock chimes on the mantel clock over the dormant fireplace
drivers & pedestrians rush home through clogged avenues
fingers dial the local pizza shops and settle to movies with loved ones on the sofa
that comfy cushion
that ice cream
that old familiar safety of Granny or Nanna
that deep in take
that sweet exhale
that subtle miraculous instant when nothing matters so much as that fresh, crisp, ice cold glass of water or that first delicious long pull on that cherry red and pineapple white and blueberry blue Fire cracker popcicle.
Summer... it's the aahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh after the storm.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
-------------throw me from the bell tower but don't break my heart. It's not too far down, but heartbreak is too hard inside. I can float on air, the splat at the end won't matter. But I can't breath without you. My heart would burst into a thousand pieces. throw me from the bell tower, just don't kill me slowly with rejection.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
round and strong
straight and bold
It connected crazy dots
dots like dog poo on the side of the road next to the freight train that ran over the bird that the dog was chasing.
The fickle finger of fate swirled around a purple stone and made a moat. Miniature and dirty muddy brown from the rain water that fell off of the roof to the stream down the gutter to the ditch dug by the dastardly dog that pooed by the train, the same puddle that some neighbor child stomped in right before that muddy brown drop splashed into the moat around the purple rock.
The fickle finger of fate scratched its nails down the sloping mounds of playground sand. It created tunnels, channels where reddened leaves rolled down in autumn races like maple red chariots. They crossed the path where the purple stone lay surrounded by a brown moat. The rumpled leaves scuttled to the finish line by the other side of the sandbox. they settled first the red, then the red-Orange, then the burnt orange- first , second, third place at the wooden finish line of fate. Three wrenched from tree limbs by wet downpour that hit the roof that splashed down the gutter into the puddle of poo made by the dog that chomped on a bird run over by a train that kicked up the purple rock that fate moated that filled with the same muddy water. Now, these reddened leaves three, plastered with race sweat from running down the channels that crossed the rock that fate scratched were smothered against the log from the tree that lent its bough to build the sandbox where fickle fate's finger drew in my sand.
*free write based on prompt*
Monday, June 15, 2009
Come in packs
devour in hordes
sabotage en mass.
The Devil's friends rip and tear
scream and howl
beat and pulverize
The Devil's friends ain't no friends of mine
ain't no friends of yours
ain't no friends at all
The Devil's friends:
Depression -rides on black wings of Hopelessness
Envy- strides on the stones of cobbled Insecurity
Violence- wars from the back of elephantine Greed
Isolation- prances on the cold headstones of Rejection and Fear
Lasciviousness- sidles forth on silken sheets of Inadequacy
The Devil's Friends
ain't no friends at all
Friday, June 12, 2009
I am finding this lovely that you can have several blogs from one account here at Blogger! very convenient. :) Here is the new link http://jldenman365challenge.blogspot.com/
Sunday, June 7, 2009
It came in a box. Beating, dripping, oozing red rivers.
It came in a bow, blackened, burnt, hardly living.
It came in a bow, shredded, stabbed, honing by two veins of hope.
I gave it to you
No, you found it
Maybe it was cosmic intervention that sent you on the trail searching for the devastated mess trapped in a strong box of bone and metal and jagged spikes of pain.
Somewhere out there, buried under rubble, drowned in hot tar, bound by terrible marsh roots it hunkered.
But through rivers festering with black mosquitoes, jungle snakes, poisoned reptiles, wicked wizards in too green garb marred by to sick vomit, you traversed. You crept. You slouched. You charged. You searched and looked and scoured.
I gave it to you
No, you found it.
Cosmic intervention and your strong will carved out trenches, slaughtered feral beast to find it- it- trapped in the hell of loss, rejection, pain, despair, devastation.
you rescued it.
that dripping, lacerated, singed, sliver of my heart left- left nearly destroyed in a box.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
children's watershed laughter
smothers summer love
weeping willow tears
dim marshes sultry essence
a southern death bead
#3 Crisp snow crunches down
Crystal sickles sparkle white
bleeding polar bears
not half full round moon
raging werewolves ramped
eat fury dreamings
#5 night birds sing last call
sun rise o'er dark waters
when will my time end?
#6 yellow daffodils
nod happy in the wind
child smells the way
above grey clouds pout
blue tears fall on mountain's back
mountain mist covers
quiet swaddles the whole world
still patience imbibes