Self Injection

Maybe I injected you
Too far beneath the skin
I can feel your longing
And taste what should have been

Serenity can’t find me
When I still feel your touch
And still, your face beside
Still driving this heartclutch

Each time I reach the surface
Your name grabs, drags me down
Claiming every movement
Muting every sound

Machine, it holds it’s graces
Feeding what you fear
Collecting what you dreamt
Producing every tear

Soul on shattered paper
Will never meet complete
For I had come to meet you
Yet you left in defeat

The word of disappointment
In self, fell from your tongue
I was left, stand broken
When only just begun

Stars you painted blindly
Lead me to your side
And still I wandered onward
And left without reply

Note left hanging on
With unrelenting strain
Pulsing from inside
Grows weak without sustain

Sentenced me to skinpeel
As I still feel your touch
The grasp still hard around me
And bruised by intent blush

The longing that you saw
Pouring from my eye
Could have been kissed away
But never said goodbye

Poem 8: Dandelions: A Golden Shovel

“The other, wry virgin to the last.”
From Sylvia Plath’s “Epitaph for Fire and Flower”

 

Dandelions spark, languid and bright as the
Bumble bee sun. And the other
flowers nod wise heads, wry
in their delicate floral knowledge, virgin
to the touch of rough hands, to
the smell of rotting garbage and the
smoke of intentional fires. They slumber at last.

A Silly Shovel

Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll is the inspiration at this golden shovel.  “`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves”

 

The case of the giggles is deadly you see, ’twas
a contagion that infects as many can be. Brillig
would not contain, this nefarious foe and
freedom to continue away it would go. the
danger lies in naivety for giggling can be quite slithy.
Beware and never regret passing giggling toves!

Psalm 23

my kid’s kid is a goat, the
yogurt eating, head butting, Lord
of the pasture; is
gently teaching my
child to be a shepherd;
I
observe my child shall
put another’s needs before her own generously, and not
leave the other to desire or want

Who Prayed this Rain?

I look upon the fields now glazed
with water from last night’s rain, with
flooding predicted, more and more rain.
Who prayed for all this water?
Who could have sat beside
the hand of God and asked the
Blessed Virgin Mary all dressed in white
to send so much rain as to drown the entire flock of chickens?

[Prompt 8: Golden Shovel from William Carlos Williams, Red Wheelbarrow: “glazed with rain / water / beside the white / chickens”]

Chasing Dragons

Outliers chasing
Outsider fire dragons
Mostly vague ideas

Slapping and snapping
Their consciousness
Between tokes and smokes

An exclusive club
Open to all who dare to
Enter darkness

No dress codes or haircuts
Allowed in this club; only
High fives are given
Or kisses and love

Where can I join
So many have asked; the
Path to Bohemia is so
long and so dark

Diane Morinich

You are my life

You are my life
You stood by my side, at the place we first met, thinking
Are we seriously doing what we always wanted, saying what we both always wanted to say
My heart skipped a beat as you held my hand, confessing your love to me,the thing I always wanted to hear
Life gave me the most precious gift that day, I got the man whom I call my husband now.

Specificity

Specificity is a writing trait that’s hard to overlook or under rate.

For adding supporting details when writing, speaking, or tweeting,

Cuts out more than a few misunderstandings that bear repeating.

Now take a statement said in jest, “The White House is a dump.”

If disregarding a sarcastic tone, it caused much grief to Mr. Trump.

Historically elegant, the White House is all commentators agree,

But leaving supporting details out fills aggrieved critics with glee.

With air conditioning (and staffers) leaking, old windows creaking

Vacationing away from the White House is, of course, stress relieving.

So take this as a cautionary tale—add supporting details to your papers,

essay and short answer questions, and you’ll not regret the extra labor.

 

MACHINES OF WAR

Reappear, you men of war, recreating the machine. Resisting technological liberation.

Economic violence is the fault of the hunted animal confused with primitive breeding. The sea, perhaps, in its absolute movement, records the history of nomads?

We have no history. Only geography…

Spoken in either direction, we appropriate the machine, using war as a supplement, an idea, rather than, a direct object. We trace creative escape lines. We build the conditions that make the State.

Flows and currents.

Appropriated independence.

Necessary weapons.

War does not want the battle as its object. The machine does not want war as its purpose. They are simply necessary results. The mutation of the shield is communal. Our existence constructs the elements of the state built war machine…

Hour Eight

I am not really pleased with this one at all

but am posting anyway–the idea is intriguing

 

This poem takes its inspiration from Stopping by the woods on a snowy evening by Robert Frost.

Between the woods and frozen lake

 

aubade and sunset define a day –between

those times sun glow and light are strong, harsh, the

need to bask in that glow wars within me with woods

offer of refuge from the light and

heat of midday, especially. My indecision has me frozen

there is no deciding, so I row out onto the lake