Passion

Draw in my heart a simple white candle

That I may find you in the everyday-

Fallen maple leaf, a verse on Sunday

Morning, a rose bloom amidst the bramble-

Mark my footsteps to amble beside you,

Slow and fast, through the season’s twist & sway,

When the moon tide is low, sands dip & stray -

When the sun rises like a fire, be true

To your words, cast long ago in the wind,  

Written in your blood, passion’s sacrifice  

To behold your eyes amongst brothers, dimmed

Of sight.   Lifting my kin, sacred chalice  

To your lips.   A spring awakening, twined

With hope that all I offer will suffice-

Written for:   Poets United - Verse First:   Passion ~   Happy Easter to everyone ~  

and D'verse poets Pub - Miltonian (or Miltonic) sonnet - Thanks to Sam Peralta - My pattern is not perfect, but oh well ~

Picture credit:   Kim Nelson

The call for the wild woman

"Inspire Howl Wing"

copyright ~ Ella of Ella's Edge

Your nostrils have forgotten the chase.  And the feast 
that awaits in the forest. Like distant drums, beating of another march, 
when the land was lush, green & & unmarked.  Now, your skin
is the color of the streets, silt with oil & cement, breathing stale 
& dry- 

You have bent yourself, rounded smooth. And dyed
your hair, ordinary as a mouse. Except your eyes, they tell a tumult, 
quiet plea.  To be swept away like burning log in a river.  To sink   
in the deepest part of the sea.  To fly.  To die a thousand times 
& live-      

At night, the wind croons your songs.  It hurts    
like dirty needles, cracking a wound.  The howling echoes, 
like a primal dance with a lover.  There is a volcano that is sleeping
in your belly.   It is fiery, bold, coarse salt, wild storm. Listen 
& tear away-    




Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Sherry's Sunday's Challenge - Release Your Inner Wild Woman  & Fireblossom Friday-The Crack in Everything ~   Thanks for the visit ~
Shared with Poetry Pantry  

On the second day of spring

I watch the glass windows-

Streaking snowflakes, relentless

As overflowing river, bursting white rage

A cup warms my hands

Every day I pour myself into its mouth

Tulip-shaped, familiar lips, predictable as a

Spoon spinning to swirl the cream,  

Its aroma rises like a tongue, fickle as a season-

Laving my skin,  chilled cold  

By ever-changing wind,  this cup  

Waits, stretching narrower & smaller 

As if wanting to swallow me-

I linger on its precipice-

Thinking of leaves-

Thinking of spring-

and you- 

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Meeting the Bar - Negative Capability

Picture credit:    Artist Rosie Hardy

Again

find me

in your fingers-

soft as a ripened peach,

musky as wild spring- and i'm yours

again

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Cinquain - Five lines of 2-4-6-8-2 syllabic count.

Picture credit:   Artist Rosie Hardy 

On ripe fruits

    

  in the blender 
the pared frozen fruits
     thicken in its juice
a slush of faint morning dawn,
  fusion of ice crystals & cream-

i pour the smoothie in my cup,
  bits of tropical tang & sticky flesh
clings to the roof of my mouth-
    its ripe roots, like wild honey
collect memories like seeded trees:  
  jazzy blues, heat/ed summer nights- 

in my thick sweater & beanie, 
    you roll in my tongue like bitter-
sweet song -

~0~0~

the basic is an experiment--

break the cumin seeds in the oily pan,
   tap a few spices, pungent & yelling of sun-
   dried palms, 2x roasted --  

as i count each round peach as perfect, 
   even with slight wrinkles & cuts -
   like nature, growing ripe/old, with/out tampering--      

in your hands, the sauce simmers & shudders--  
   i bite a chocolate piece, wishing for its
   decadent sweetness 

Posted for:   Real Toads - Sunday's Challenge - Poets in the Kitchen - It's all about food & taste, I am hosting ~ Smiles ~  

And D'verse Poets Pub - weaving these words:   sauce, chocolates, hands, count, double,  yells, break, basic, round, shudder (From my children)  

picture credit:   here

a letter of apology to my SISters

For not RAisinG my voicE when you Are  huRT 

     For turning MutE to demeANing jOkEs & words

I was qUiet when they called you baby, WwhorRE, bbiTCh 

    As if you are just breasts, legs, LiPs, ASs, a trinket, an afterthought. 

I did not RAge hard enouGh, scrEaM lOUD enough 

    when you were abUSEd and KilLED on the side of the road.

My solemn PLea is to raisE my son to be A better man, 

    a son who HoNors & reSpects his motHER 

will be a better fatHER to his daugHtERs, a loving man to his wife. 

   For if a son can KiLL his motHER in a HEARbeaT  

he can Kill kILL anyone like a deMENted animal      

   STOP the vioLENce against woMEN.   



~0~0~0~ 



your words
can knife a girl 
sharper than thorns, breaking
mother's heart, father's pride, brother's  
baby

sister -- 
use them like seeds -- 
gentle as snowflakes, white 
candles for peace, not for mourning,
my son



Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Today We Scream - Thanks to Susie Clevenger ~ 

March has been set aside by Woman Scream International Poetry Festival as the month to raise awareness through poetry about violence against women.

And D'verse Poets Pub - Short Verses - I have used a cinquain (syllabic  2-4-6-8-2) - Thanks Fred for the prompt.