A Crimson-Colored Canopy
Sing angry songs with me
alight with that
despondent fury strung
along marmalade branches
sticky perfection
that catches everything
but the flies
(Hour 07) 04.30-05.30am. PROMPT, song: Resurrection Fern
iron & wine
the pagan, the angel and i borrow a car
overtake the white toothed man
listen to the buzzard’s lovesong
as we flee the carousel racing instead
toward our forgotten house by the sea
no one’s bones are ever innocent
the shepherd’s dog sings songs to the wolves
fearing resurrection or the urn
every boy with coins, bets his soul
knows the devil never sleeps
never finds peace beneath the city
hope is a flightless bird, choking in our american mouths
An Unlikely Father
Whilst everyone is happy
That she got a perfect partner to spend her life with
The father is upset
Because he is going to take the reason for his living away from him
Whilst everyone is rejoicing
That she got a perfect partner to look after her
The father is worried
Because he is going to take the reason for his pride away from him
Whilst everyone is celebrating
That she got a perfect partner to share her joys and sorrows with
The father is envious
Because he is going to take the reason for his smile away from him
Guilty Pleasure (hour 9)
I have this tiny, little, guilty pleasure.
Sometimes, I don’t look where I’m going,
and I make men walk around me.
You see, it’s funny because they
walk right through me instead
They cut me off, and I apologize.
They cheat on me, and I apologize.
They lie to me, and I apologize.
They attack me, and I apologize.
Another guilty pleasure:
I date the wrong guys.
The guys who can’t keep rhythm,
and don’t understand reason.
You see, it’s perfect because then,
they can always blame me.
I said stop, and I apologized.
I said go away, and I apologized.
I said please, and I apologized.
I said don’t, and I apologized.
A tiny, little, guilty secret:
whether he was pinning me to the ground
or holding a gun against my head,
I was asking for it,
or at least that’s what my mother said.
Yuck…this needs a lot of reworking, but here it is….
For All Of Our Lonely Patterns (Hour 7)
Following the roads that lead along the river,
the turns and washed out crevices that only we know.
Under the shadows of moving clouds in the vast Kansas sky
I kissed you in a ring of watching oak trees,
the first witnesses of my heart presented on bleeding paper.
In the wildflower dance of that neverending afternoon,
I blanketed your body with the wounds I learned to heal
before my hand could hold steady enough to untie the ribbon in your hair.
So I swallowed all of yesteryear’s memories
to try and give you a real word,
a purity from my lips untasted by any others but you.
The trust in your crying eyes,
as if you had seen all of this happen before,
somewhere not too different than here,
in a dream you use to dream when you were a little girl.
And the disappointment of reality became
the tripping step of mad love, falling hard for the imperfections
of all our failed promises.
I never wanted to be what hurt you the most,
or a painful chapter in the story you wrote
with your skin and hair and lips and love.
Is there no other way to exist as close to someone as we have been?
Our pain preserved like rusting metal left in the fields,
where I saw the red tail resting on the fence,
his face turned to the sky,
so that his eyes may better watch
the movements upon the ground.
Based on The Love Poems of Elizabeth Sargent
Melodramatic
extravagant, faded lover
My lost movie star
Miss you so tonight
Picture your long rock star hair
and ache to feel you
Our movie was best
blockbuster love story so
unbelievable
A seventies hit
Winning our own awards, so
scandalous, miss you
Melodramatic
extravagant, faded lover
Still dream about you
© Diane Morinich
All Rights Reserved
Every Breath
Standing by her bedside
Life ebbing away
Her chest–rising, falling.
Heart slowing down
Holding her hand;
Prayers for peaceful passing.
The monitor is beeping
Time stands still;
Her forehead relaxes.
Nurses nod their heads;
Gone forever, now.
Imagining her welcome.
Gathering my thoughts;
Aching so intense–
How to go on now?
Breathe in, breathe out.
Lungs full, lungs empty.
Repeat, repeat, repeat.
(Hour 06) 03.30-04.30am. PROMPT, stuck in a very small place, actual or metaphorical
sentence
many are the days my grief & i
wish to simply curbkick company
lock all the doors draw closed the curtains
keep out as much of the cold as we can
cuddle the past under the doona
as we slide between the covers
to trap ourselves in another world
till all track of time is gleefully lost
only emerging from our paper prison
break the bars of my textual cage
to piss as infrequently as bladderly possible
then rapidly reincarcerating imagination
until the final phrase, the last line leaps
breaks free from the final page
fireworking the final neurons in our brain
before slumbercrawling back into the world
grief wrangled, mollified, appeased for another day
Just one more moment
is all I need
to breathe the words
“Tu me manques”
On your lips