Brenda Warren
Blue poppies neither dissuade
My visions nor furnish them.
How frivolous these inklings
When abridged for the sake
Of speedy conversation
And how brief the spark
When the audience
Cannot derive the epilogue
From its gnarled beginnings.
–
Strange are the idols of man
And stranger still his renderings.
The number thirteen hangs
Over my head like a cat’s grin
Scathing in its serial regard.
I will never forget the lay of my body
Its apocalyptic roots compressing
My vocal chords that the screams
Within register only as sighs.
–
I want to be audible
Even in silence,
To be relevant, however,
Uncompromising my muse
To exceed those expectations
Which have condemned
All venture literary or otherwise.
I want to be, without
Feeling myself unwelcome,
An indisputable part
Of the life that I’ve been given.
mindlovemisery 