Wordle #259

259 New

I twist flowers into song,
broken glass into pages,
dreams into cannons.
The cavity of your affection
swallows all that is idle in me.

The mirror runs with perspiration,
angry flesh, eyes cupped
I prefer not to address
the source of my malcontent.
If only I could hate you
just a little bit more.

We never finish our sentences,
promises thrust in necessity,
family is not a valid excuse.
I sew confetti into books,
into the scraps and hollows
of my calcifying flesh.

How many ribs does it take
to fasten a cage?
Unfettered and maudlin
I grill hearts, medium rare
over a cool blue flame.

We board separate trains.
We lead lives of revulsion.
We check our suitcases at the door
but our baggage never ceases
to empty and encumber us.

Have I done this Wordle I am not sure since the image was already in my library I assume so, another attempt in that case. I am still processing and I don’t have access to my usual reserves. A friend of mine wrote to me and she had some very lovely words to say about my writing and I thought I would give it go before I rust completely shut.

Wordle #257

257

The warmth leaves my fingers,
as if it were laughter.
What is this nothing
into which I empty
my wit daily?

The bird in my breast
grows fat on a quilt of stars.
Who dares make a wish
when the twinkle has fallen
from my eye?

Let me weep in abject silence,
salt is the sole spice in my repertoire.
If only I could lift the music
from these moonstruck pages
that alone would suffice.

How can I claim reason
in this habitual state of shock?
A sigh is the heaviest
of all sentiments,
when I reach the bottom
I promise only to dig.

Photo Challenge #124 and Wordle #257

burnt-pages_b.jpg
Ronny Garcia Moron

My wings crack on exhumation,
so deep are the veins in my heart
that I cannot unmask them.

I succumb to the spark of fire
that grows steadily from underneath my thumb.
I have tried so hard to be numb,
slick with sweat I crumble.

I am no chum of yours,
I belong to no one
people irk me
their neat conversations
serve no truth and I am tired of lies,
of luck that implies no exertion.

Fashion me a lock
to which no key exists,
a box of epiphanies
that will not open.

I tear and burn
each layer no thicker than a page.
The clouds thrum
salty with all the promises
they have been made to keep.

2571

Wordle Special Addition Sound “August 1st, 2016”

Sound Wordle

A percussive rain deafens
my fingers dim, wafers of immaculate moonlight
rustle from underneath a whoosh of fleece.

My ears echo with thunder,
with a nocturne of heartbeats
and gurgled bare-faced sobs.

The wind crackles as if it were a fire
and I too am a fire, thready and popping
in the exaltation of diminishing heat.

My strident breath brims,
a whistle of bones, a weft of scars,
buzzing deep down.

I am a carapace
with more projections
than I can manage.

These sonorous storms seize
peel my layers back
show me for what I am and what I am not.

I knew sound would be a hard one!

Wordle #119 “July 25th, 2016”

Week 119

My words fidget-
a resonance so shrill
it continuously escapes me-
like damselflies careening
over bitter pools.

My heart is a skiff
chasing storm-tinctured skylines.
Its vacancies easily doused
I fight for breath underwater.

I have a knack for anechdoche,
for transmigration but wherever I go
it is to that same backlit frame that I return,
a motherless fetus exhumed.

The damage is mostly internal.
Eternal, I propagate my faults
though the addition
only serves to diminish.

Where do I even begin. I am having trouble facing certain realities/situations and I have sort of shut down emotionally which is making writing difficult. Also because I have been writing less frequently I am feeling uncertain and out of sync.

Whirligig 6

6 Whirl.jpg

Feeble and pestilent
I surrender my hollows,
my breath, my mysticism.
I will not apologize
for making a gift of your smile.

My purple skirt skims the breeze
twenty and filled with consolatory guile
my head hangs like an overladen donkey.
Ignorance is not a explanation
only an avenue to armistice.
(Why can’t you forgive?)

Southward and counting
who will claim me now
that I have abandoned everything?
My soiled hands lean,
an earthenware heart,
a conspicuous fracture
injustice is offensively swift.

I am pretty distracted these days and everything feels like a rough draft

Wordle #116

Week 116

A string of staccato vowels,
a coterie of fireworks, a protean waltz
churning beneath my left breast pocket
like so many precipitous waves.
I wilt under observation,
there are too many eyes
in this room and I cannot
answer them without forgetting myself.

I am a dummy, a trampled wallflower
peeling my spine-prim as a starched collar-
from the shell of a walnut.
I would do anything
to avoid the strop, the proboscis,
the razor-tongued princesses
deadening in their conceit.

I am a well no deeper than a thimble
what I lack cannot be embellished,
what I possess is scarcely worth mimicry.
The stars lie down for me,
they beget me, how can I go on
wasting chance after chance
in the preservation of illusion?

Photo Challenge #119

annmansolino
Ann Mansolino

A breached oyster-my heart now open-sours.

There can be nothing left in the end

no vapor trail, no outlines to pit the earth.

I want no part of you, not even reflection.

Let me not solidify here

with my anguished hands

still wringing the receiver.

My tears are too much for you,

they are oceans howling.

I replicate in attendance.

A virus, I have a mind to infect you,

to stiffen your smile before it chances to fall.

Do not ignore me

if it doesn’t hurt how can I

justify my investments?

My God I am pitiful,

whimpering, simpering, dangling

my nerves as if to snare.

I do not love you quite so much anymore

I see now that these treacheries,

these homicides are the shapes

of my own unaccountable fear.

Feet ghosting a sapphire ceiling

I have lived my whole life

upside down, legs crossed,

stomach bare as a drum.

There is strength in anonymity

and a predilection for despair.

Still feeling wobbly and stuck

Wordle #115 and Writing Prompt #165 “Collage 26”

Week 115

The steady whine of your smile
dismantles my nonchalance.
The house we share shutters
whenever the train passes.
Day after day we sit
face to face our knees
almost touching.

Every poem is Freudian
a slip of the hand, of the tongue,
of the ever-beguiling imagination.
When I was young
it was enough to be preposterous.
If only I knew now
what I understood then,
recognition has the effect of sedation.

I’ve a phallus instead of a soul,
and it longs to occupy
your leagues and corners.
In the attic our keepsakes
gather dust and whilst
we remember the moths
are growing plump
on our promises.

What perfidy that you,
so familiar, should remain so distant.
I linger as a rakefire, my hopes
smashed to sediment.
How tiresome, how heart-rending
that I should deface these doors,
dead on opening what
more could you ask of me?

I practice your loss daily
because I don’t think
I could bare to lose you all at once.
Why must I live
with such convictions,
with such self-deprecating paranoias.
Why must I miss you
when you are still here,
so close we could almost kiss.

Collage 26

Wordle #252

252

There’s a sense of spring
in your willing thighs,
in the pressure of exchange.
We track each other
every night but come morning
we are compelled to loss.
Frightened by motley promises
and arbitrary addictions
we drift in and out of our respective delusions.

I wake with
the tolling of the bell,
glossy-eyed and blue
around the edges.
Your wordless smile wavers,
behind a veil of nonchalance.
I should say I love you more often
but the delay from my lips to yours
is deafening and I think it cruel
that we should exist only in tandem.

The pen bites back
an incurable itch,
pages jettisoned to ink.
If my words
can be anything
I want them to be doors.
Each of us has a truth
unworthy of affection,
a truth that scars
every aspect gained.

I stand hands shucking
a shock of clouds
hoping to find a mission
that will pay my wages.
I want not for lacking
but for having too much
to consider.
I want not for absence
but for being false
with everyone I meet.
A mask, however, convincing
cannot see what lies
directly in front of it.