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.





The stop sign governs my life

I wait at the corners of every intersection

Delayed and ostensibly impenitent

Inside I’m screaming “Go Go Go

While you still have hope to spare!”

But the engine no longer turns

For I’ve no fuel left to hearten


I have writer’s block or maybe I should say I have poetry block. I am so emotionally constipated that I find myself uncomfortable with everything I produce

Curious Thunder

1.-A-fishermans-dream-Surreal-artArtist: Hokusai

Crouching behind

A ferrous moon

I curse the Tao for

Its continual breach

Of chrysalis.

Will I ever summon

From contract or must

I forever embellish?


I stand between dimensions

Ship-wrecked and plaintive.

My burdens are few and many

Hands knotted as a fisherman’s ropes

I extract and lengthen but the lines

Remain irreparably crooked.


Life is hell if that’s the aspect taken

I’ve seen heaven too but only as I’ve

Imagined it, look to the left

And you too will find it beating

Like the recoil of a curious thunder


I also wrote a poem at Curious Flowers for today’s entry it’s called Real



I slide into black

Into the sleek lines

Of a vintage cocoon

The necrotizing shadows

Cradled between

Ribs and brows

Empty my persona

Of hopeful embellishments


Once I was ambrosial

I wore my youth

In tokens of spring

My words were flowers

My eyes primed

With rain and sun

My heart an eager fruit

Given in savage parodies

Of love


Once I yearned only

For another day

To celebrate my life

Now I yearn

For poultices and potions

To heal those wounds

Heedlessly obtained

Now I hide

For I fear above all



A crone of the Gray Waste

I propagate riddles

Tongue rasping like

Itinerant autumn leaves

I am none the wiser

But my words

Are harder to deflect

For they mean more now

Then they ever did

In courtship