Wordle 197 Race and Rescue


Brenda Warren

I carry your words

Around with me in a tin cup

Filled with coins and sundries

The wedded nocturnes of fortune,

Rattling and rapacious

Against a penitentiary of one.

I calculate the syntax

Of clouds as they spread darkly

From one state to another,

From one host to the next

The sun never quite cognizant

Despite recurrent invitation.

My patron ticks impatiently,

A watch severed at the wrist

A rescue that does not commence

The day of the race is upon us

The prickly hare, the measured tortoise,

The thimble-sized child

With her ceremony of red balloons.

Humility always trumps bravado.

The names that go up lights

Are not always worth mention.

Sometimes heroes are only

Manifestations of a short-lived

Much embellished headline.

Sometimes losers are such

Because they have contested

A much obliged ignorance.





Wordle 201 “Fosse”


Brenda Warren

The ghosts in my veins

Circle the fosse

Of your belligerent margins.

I wake each morning

To the invitation of sex

Fragile but resolute.

The weight of my flesh

Howls beneath

The weight of yours.

One exorcism away

From absolute freedom.

Your smile sticks

To the roof of my mouth

Like an epitaph

Pressed through granite.

Death will not empty

The cache

Of my eidetic soul.


How many names occupy

The space between us

A table choked with flowers

I cover my fear behind a wall

Of unmapped constellations.




Photo Challenge #58, Surrealism, April 28, 2015 and Wordle 198

Tess Photography

Tess Photography

I dine on dendrites and cherry blossoms,

Sipping tea from an earthenware mug.

The puritan in me navigating the clown

Transposed in your upside down smile.

My wounds burst like glass from a windshield

The cacophony of your laughter instilling

A seal in my fleecy, vestigial heart.

The sound of our screams filling

One another like bowls of whipping cream

We tumble over confectioneries

And conversations that perspire.

When I shut my eyes

I remember that the voices

Inside are mine

Even if the frequencies emitted

Do not correspond

To any known tendency.

Linoleum is the saddest of all compromises,

Cold and sparing against our ill-begotten flesh

I should have ridden you bareback

Into the garden, beating your name into frenzy

My fingers dripping with voodoo and pollen

My lips a very precise shade of zeitgeist

As if the clock could clone our sacred places

And shoot them out in a vertiginous stream.





Wordle #58 “April 26, 2015″

Week 58

Your orphaned tongue

Rummages my frayed nerves,

A raven plucking

The marbled lenses

Of a cumbersome benediction.

Whatever I have left

Does not warrant visitation.

I drink of your notebooks

The flickers of hiraeth,

A sentiment that all misfits

Endow whatever their proximity.

I weave courage from the scraps

Of your overheard prayers

As an old woman wrestles her

Memories into symmetrical swatches.

Laughter only exacerbates my fear

I watch while you endeavor

From behind a plaster wall

Invisible against transgression

Idle and decompressed

Closer to death than even

The Reaper supposes.



Writing Prompt #104 Rorschach Test Take 2

Rorschach Test


I dust the feathers

From the wilderness

Of your ceaseless ablations.

The scent of hyacinths

Overlapping the scent of frost.

Wax wings coagulating

Inside the brittle pretense

Of a binomial darkness.

I watch your holiness subside

The Blood of Christ

Was never strong enough

To subdue your animal urges.


My pelvis somersaults

Whenever you mention my name.

Ribs, a corset unlaced

For the sake of aviation.

If I fill my lungs with helium

Can I follow you East?


The controversy of doves

Leaking prohibitions

Into my guilt matrix


I could spend all day

Here with you debating ethics

But there’s more truth in terror,

In the abdication of thought

For the sake of gratification.



Wordle 200


Hopelessness keeps

One delicate and chained.

Suffer me in sympathy

I can endure the knife

But the noose leaves me

Turbulent and estranged.

However, tiny the pathogen

Dissemination is inevitable.

I lift the cherries from your tongue

The knots are unassailable

The clandestine pit

The fleshy medulla

Juices that rupture

Into my absences

A one man everything.

The uncut river rips

My heart from its perch

A canary thrust beak first

And wasting into the mines.

My fingers flex against the currents

Scalpels searing invisible flesh.

I hook transmutables

In the arch of my palms

Pushing and tumbling

Along a course that overtakes itself.

I fold over myself like petals

Burying a beloved stamen.

A time capsule untempered.

My lungs wrestle the tide

Like an umbrella hassled in tempest

There’s no escaping my post

My awkward humanity

You take me in, one gulp at a time.

I did 201 but I think I want to work on it some more (I should probably give these poems names). Is my blog behaving normally? Posts showing up everyday on Reader? Has WordPress been experiencing any problems? On another note I am working on my 2nd book and I am quite excited about it XD



Wordle 202


Words by Brenda Warren

Your fingers knead

My might, an intrinsic sting

Just shy of pulverizing.

I dress only to hide the emptiness

Of my left breast pocket.

Old scars matted down with saliva.

Blood might not make the cannibal

But it certainly sharpens the teeth.

The smack of a puerile wind

All your excuses trampled

Into the dirt and once planted

I wait for the truth to begin.

There’s a cocoon within us

That holds the other fast.

The drive is long

Strings of conversations

Plaiting the bridge of our smiles.

This is a trip that never ends,

A club to the back of the head

Knocking the breath free

One rampage away from yesterday

We’ll kill each other, we always do.



Wordle 203


Brenda Warren

The monkeys come,

Rustling from their parapets

A plague of shrieks born

From their dry, uncompromising throats.

A rebellion that speaks

To all the niches of our inhumanity.

Eyes full of soul

And intent as shot marbles.

These almost humans,

Which we force to perform as such,

Do not exist to fill our vacancies.

The sweet, inarticulate youth

Blasphemous in the arousal of sexuality

Will grow unwieldy, unprecedented

And all those careful hierarchies

Will reverse themselves, quite suddenly.

A penchant toward savagery

They loiter the decks of the wealthy

A trellis snuffing the lights of demarcation.

There is nothing whole

In the promise of captivity.

These wild things,

Who in fury unmask our faces

Have a right to rule

Their own dominion

And though their familiar hands

Tear gaily at our heartstrings

They will never play for us.



Wordle 204


Brenda Warren

Sleep stolen for the sake

Of wild beginnings

I arranged dreams for him,

Sculpted the clay of my flesh,

Spoke in burning tongues

About a life not even glimpsed,

For the keys are never

Far enough removed

From my fingertips

To facilitate such miracles.

My only power is instigation.

I am not even a person

Four-cornered, punched through

Like a time card or an used ticket

I float insensate between the ears

Popping from the bottle

With a celebratory smack

Whenever dying permits.

In hindsight love was impossible

Because right from the start

I felt it necessary to invent.



Wordle 205

204Brenda Warren

The red door

Stands ajar

As if it were a novel

And the inhabitants


Without predecessor

Loiter listlessly

In my absence

Each wishing to exist

And I unable to deal

That life-giving breath.

There are no mail slots,

No windows dimmed or otherwise

Just closet after closet

Into which my personas

Are posthumously cast.

I twiddle my keys

But the grinning locks

Have their own teeth,

Their own defiance.

The three-pentacled star

That can no longer beget

Winks at me from behind

Billowing eyelashes

And one by one

All those sacred wishes

Rush out energetically

Like ovulating salmon.

I sit back to the wall

Singing to the sun’s fiery sister

Without pack or pact

I cannot repair

What has been lost.

I write as if the paper

Were gauze

And the ink ointment,

But I never heal.

Mediocrity is always astounding

For all my efforts

I still suffer the limitations

Of my craft,

Some days the words

Do not add up at all

Even though

I have delivered them

Ribboned in my blood.