‘Season of the Sound’
In the quietude of night, still waters of the bight,
an unheard whisper, a sensible respite.
Three seasons of sound,
one raft, one roar and one reason abound
Hour 7: Prompt 7: Season of the Intuitives
Emotions running high
not always knowing
where they may have come from
why they present themselves at that moment
yet always fully aware-
waiting-
hoping to make sense of the chaos,
confusion.
Wanting to help those around
who may need the positive energy-
sometimes unsure which way to always send it.
Season of the birds
The world has quieted and now
the birds are free to sing,
no longer competing with the noise
of cars and jets.
In this calm, mama hummingbird builds her nest
on a wind chime and she
raises her baby
while they rock gently together in the breeze.
We get regular deliveries:
sugar from Instacart to make hummingbird nectar
bird seed in bulk from chewy.com
new feeders from Amazon.
The Fed Ex truck arrives and the gate is slammed.
The dogs run madly to inspect the box
and sniff disappointedly at yet another
present for the birds.
Some things I should have told you #6
In no particular order
I like the colour blue,
Every time the baby cries, I remember amma
How she cried too when the days got hard
That time you brought me a flower
I dreamt about a garden at night
I don’t write as much as I should
I am afraid of words and what they do
I want to go to Amsterdam some day
You’re the only person who has seen me cry
When my brother was twenty, he left home
I wait for him to return sometimes
One day I watched the stars
And realized I was not lost
I’ve kept the little note you wrote in a diary
I hope I won’t have to throw it away
I have a friend who will bring me sunflowers
When I realize my days are few
There’s a little box in my head locked with a key
Inside is a book and a photograph of you laughing
I liked it when you laughed
It made me think of home
When I said even songbirds stop singing
I wished it wasn’t true
That day I let you go, I wanted you to stay.
Hour 7: Season of Springs
I want to live my life
In a season of eternal springs
With new beginnings
And budding opportunities
Always having the chance
To blossom and grow.
Season of the Bitch
When her friends stopped visiting,
When her family stopped calling.
When he went inside another woman— and she was still breastfeeding his baby.
When a wild dog kept breaking into the yard, stiff and growling,
but no one came to help.
When the baby started teething.
When the toddler started rebelling.
When she left the magical trees
When she gave the landlord the keys.
She stopped caring.
She started surviving.
She stopped visiting.
She stopped messaging.
She stopped calling.
She stopped loving.
She stopped smiling.
She stopped tasting food.
She left the summer rats
the baby scorpions
the snakes and hungry roadrunners
the lazy people, the angry people
No more parties
No more tagging pictures
No more play dates
No more Mom’s Nights Out
No more bullshit.
You got to pick up every stitch
Oh no, must be the Season of the Bitch.
Hour 7, Prompt 7
Poem 7
A prostitute saw that eye once, in a rented room on the outskirts of an Arizona town.
Man, mule and body.
Cross the sands.
5 cactus to 500 miles of grain.
His foreheads sops his hat, drips to his chin, down his shirt.
The haze stings his cheeks a touch. The mule slows.
He has to cross one thousand miles of this to go where she said to go.
He wants to leave it on the sand. Soon the wind will blow, erase the eye, the skin. None will be ever found.
But his gut feels heavy just to lay his parcel down.
So through the crushed shell and dirt he drives the beast on. Once he knows its story then the stabbing burn will be gone.
Hour 7; Prompt 7: Season of the Gun
It was the season of the gun that year
All the kids just had to have one
Some just liked looking at them
Shying away from the trigger pull
Shuddering at the words it spoke
In 9mm Parabellum or .223
They didn’t make it
It was the season of the gun that year
All the guys gabbed about
How theirs was so fucking cool
Kitted out
Locked and Loaded
Ready to rock the world in body counts
Some of them were even allowed
Some even went to show the kids
To hear them speak
They didn’t make it
This year is the season of the gun
Only these guns are older
Ancient by design actually
And unlike their contemporary counterparts
These guns spit ammo that can pierce souls
They fire in pejoratives and slurs
They scream in waves of hate and fear
These bullets bleed the spirit
They didn’t make it, but they live on
This is the Season of the Gun
# 8 remembering green
Too many to count and name
Spend a day out there looking
Wonder at green that signals
The beginning and end of things
New life hopeful at the start
Buds and sprouts a gentle hue
Then failing flesh and mold
Suggests doom and decay
Heed the waning of green
As a warning that our Mother
Will indeed purge herself
Of our manmade sickness
Should green become a memory
It shall be too late
How do we tell our children
That there was green
Connected (Prompt 5)
I wish I was a tree, roots intertwining whispered messages. Send me healing when I am weak, speak to me in language of earth reaching down to wet depths. Can you understand me, feel me, hear me, I am not linguistic. I am ancient and I am stable.
I wish I was a tree, to sway and bend, lend my arms as homes to all the winged ones. I want to be a home. Call out through stretches of hidden electricity, murmur simplicity against me and do not let me fall. Hold me up when I am sick and we will stand tall together.