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.





I could bend nails between my teeth

Too many Crucifixions not enough

To extricate and who between us

Gives without bilateral compensation?

I am not just a girl I am a way home

The truth in each of us, is the stuff

From which heaven is forged

Ghost Lover

I left it all up to interpretation

Those intangibles, those ripe fruits

Destined to remain unpeeled.

For a man of riddles

You have a way of overlooking

Even the most obnoxious clues.


Confession dulls the heart

I prefer to decay

In the open sunlight

Feeling every moment

Stewing and simmering

The heat scorching my surfaces

So that only the essence persists.


This is my love

There is no need

For an object or an objective

Life provides an ample palate

And art is always the most vivid

When it incises truth.


That I could drink you

And quench my thirst

As one gleans invisibles

From the rustling

Of unoccupied sheets.

Photo Prompt #39 “Scream by the Pier”

Arno Rafael Minkkinen 39

Arno Rafael Minkkinen

I swallow each plank

Mouth oblong, exacting

A splinter-filled well.

The distance

Between us is arbitrary,

An illusion generated

By our inability

To dismiss labels.

If truth does not conform

Then what will?

But truth does not

Always favor the majority

Sometimes only one

Rises to the cause.


If a fantasy the moral

Would breathe its very last

In the very first kiss

Living does not imply

Perfection, it is an art

Fueled with whatever madness

Ignites but does not wholly consume

The soul it confesses.


Steady hands struggle

To contain the pulse

And when the water rises

One cannot but scream.

To be human is to hunt

In the wreckage

For a weapon capable

Of defrocking these myriad veils

To be human is to drown

Whether above or below

Whether within or without

Sensation is not optional.




Wordle #39 “Gold”

Wordle 39 Dec. 15

The clock skims

My anonymous chantage,

A stilettoed ghost branding

My every scheme.

The envelope sets aloof

Misshapen and sealed

Discreet and emblematic

A stunning contradiction.


Beyond its sticky cervix

Your voice throbs,

Insistent as a scar

Beneath hooded eyes.

A brume of stanzas

Undresses those parts

So oft concealed

A heart, a womb, faces

Teeming in the river’s mouth.


A truce might silence

This rivalry.

But where is the fun in that?

In you alone I climax.

In you alone

The words gather.

Whatever alias I testify to

You manage to find

Within it a way to die,

A truth that cannot

Be shucked its fibrous cloak,

A truth more valuable than gold.


I decided to go back and do the one I missed during the move. My cold which had been quite mild, has gotten much worse.


New Star

It’s not a rift that a button can conquer
It’s not a matter of fashion or posture
My body is a starched linen
My face a wide-brimmed hat
My hands, two monkeys stirring

This island is eroding
Tame next to the sea’s wiles.
The boulder no longer commands
My exits nor presumes to waylay guests
I am not the same surplus
The same angel, the same grail
Immortal, nirvanic
Content to equip my enemy
With both ammunition and gauze.

When I die please do not consider me
A victim, know that, I went fighting,
Know that, the cave grimaced in sunlight
And that I took those yellow tendrils
Into myself as one takes a mirror
Willing, if inadequately equipped,
To embrace a truth superseding ego.

I can no longer justify my trips to purgatory
The poverty that follows each extraction
Some days I leave my face unmade.
And set out to conquer the extraordinary
I was given but one heart
And none but she can pronounce my name.

Photo Challenge #9 “Lotus Song”


Andrey Bobir

I never gave my heart

The benefit of expression

Compromised every note

With a bedeviled chorus

Under the premise of logic

I outwitted instinct

But was none the wiser


Of the faces worn

None are so enduring

As the Godhead

I fashion labyrinths

Of human hair and insulation

Chasing monosyllabic stars

Under the council of sheep

Still bodhichitta remains



I left my hands in cement

To harden as if they were

A personalized monument

For a depersonalized farce

I ceased all intrinsic endeavor

Heel toe…heel toe..heel toe

Boots greased by a mercurial skyline

The end was of my own making

Still the beginning follows


What have I learned

In the passage of time

In the snarl of sand

As it plummets from

One hemisphere into the next?

To accept yourself

For no other truth fits


I am never satisfied with my philosophical poems something I need to work on

Amnesiac (3 little poems)



Poised at the left hand margin

I draw bolts of divergent flesh together

Praying that the stitches will hold

For there is a reality that stands

Perilously close to departure


There is a feral child cached

In the paper thin walls

Of my unreceptive womb

I do not know her name

But her screams echo now

As always within my heart


For an amnesiac

Writing what you know

Can be achieved only

Through immaculate conception


The best writers are often said to write from personal experience but what if you couldn’t remember the events or the people around which those experiences are molded? I suffer from various forms of Epilepsy induced amnesia. Unlike many writers I simply can’t sit down and recount my life in vivid detail. My memories from yesterday have the same vague dream like quality as those from childhood. I have heart and abstraction but lack the concrete details. Often I have to take my raw emotions and put them into fictional or semi fictional pieces because quite frankly I just can’t remember my life well enough. Writing has helped me to know myself. So rather than write what I know I write to discover.

Angels of the Prosaic

Buddhist Temple's Bird Cage, 1940 Gelatin silver printKansuke Yamamoto

My heart whittles away all intermediary

None who enter shall ever replicate her song

In the absence of data there is always instinct

That I exist is the only catalyst essential to expression


I dream of brush-fires and lightening

Of incidentals and incendiaries

I am intolerant of dysfunction

When it overtakes my composition

To be an alien in the the desert

Is exceptional only in the clarity

Of a well-articulated obligation

Better to be the only Venusian

In a fountain of supple dreams


All these delusions

These unsolicited truths

Shed on gestation

They are mine to gather

Who else exists that can

Define precisely their shape?


I exist in the minutiae

In the dalliances

Of stones and silhouettes

The muse’s pock-marked face

Composed in odyssey

I am not afraid of demons

Only of men who speak falsely


Were I without hope

I’d cease scavenging

Were I without gratitude

My pen would halt

Its recursive sonnet


I am an optimist canvassing

Hell for a paradise lost

A misfit who sees angels

In the veils of the prosaic


My non appointment appointment took an unexpectedly long time. Though there was a scheduling error and they sent me home as soon as I arrived I spent a weird amount of time trying to get home again. I didn’t have much time to write and I now have the pressure of knowing the appointment isn’t even over yet!

Life is not an intermission

water clouds fish surreal bubbles fantasy art mermaids sunbeams underwater 1920x1200 wallpaper_www.wallpaperhi.com_591

She is a coal miner’s daughter

Raised with the expectation

Of a stoically borne tragedy

She is the accoutrement of a cage

Clasped irrespective of occasion

I carry her, a pale, tremulous fist

Aggrieved by the imperatives of war


There is something inconsolable about immortality

The way it accelerates the death of all we hold dear

There is something oppressive about the sky

When it remains too long unbroken

There are storms of necessity and clouds

Full of hormonal surges and silver tinged hopes

We do not want happiness everlasting but passion

This moment full of unexpressed gratitude

Is not an intermission it is and ever will be the truth


This poem actually accompanies the monster post I wrote today for my other site Curious Flowers


Which I called The Happiness Game basically it is me trying to process