Fault lines shimmer
awake
inside my head.

Earthquakes shudder
alive
things you’ve said.

Won’t you drown me in my
coffee?
So that I will never face

any more natural disaster
memories
ripping through my day.

words dripping off my tongue
swirling round this
house

breaking glass is the sound
of truth pouring
down

down
down

beat the past
bury me

with the horror you can't believe

this was supposed to be a secret
this was supposed to be a secret
this was supposed to be a secret


"Don’t you know how to keep a secret?"


* this was written for Writer's Island. The prompt was controversial.

A Compulsion to Spill Words

it's the fish that swims inside my viens
it's a rush from dancing near the flames
it's misery and it's regret
it's so I can remember, so I can forget


its ancient visions come back around
its water flowing under ground
its madness and it is pain
its summer snow and winter rain

its crawling underneath my skin
its breaking out and sneaking in
its glory and its release
it holds me captive, sets me free

its solid and it is hollow
its gone today but sought tommorow
it's muse and hunger and instinct
catch the tiger, slay the dream

muse, hunger and instinct
why I spill these words
all over me

"I am lonely, lonely.
I am lonely, lonely.
I am lonely, lonely."

I was born to be lonely.
I'd wake and hear the cold- splintering, breaking-
and slowly I would rise and dress.

I was born to be lonely.
A child's blood so red,
fear the chronic anger of this house.

I was born to be lonely,
and watch light slowly close
against the yellow drawn shades.

I was born to be lonely,
dance naked grotesquely,
on water I'm not sure is there.

I was born to be lonely,
What did I know? What did I know?
But that's all right.

"I am lonely, lonely.
I am lonely, lonely.
I am lonely, lonely."

I was born to be lonely.
But that's all right.



* This is a cento. That means this poem is comprised of lines from other poets works:
Danse Russe by William Carlos Williams
Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden
Whose Mouth Do I Speak With by Suzanne Rancourt
My Father's Hat by Mark Irwin
Father's Song by Gregory Orr

This was done for the site Patchwork Poetry.

Hollywoodland Hunger

"Fame

is a fickle food.
Men eat of it and die."

Always the camera is angled so we look up
and nothing will come of our lovelock.

"Fame is a fickle food.
Men eat of it and die."

That lady with her garments on
is Life but is she Art?

"Fame is a fickle food.
Men eat of it and die."

Nothing! Nothing but air, thin air.....
"This," says the voice, "can be laid to the natural greed."

"Fame is a fickle food.
Men eat of it and die."

Men eat of it and die.
Food!
Just Food!
Just any old kind of food!

Dying to taste it. Take a slice-
only a pun for bread- seductive
visually, but you could starve.

"Fame is a fickle food
Men eat of it and

die."





This is a cento. None of the lines above are mine. The poems used were:
Running Away Together by Maxine W. Kumin
Video Cuisine by Maxine W. Kumin
Fame is a Fickle Food by Emily Dickerson
Ode to the Lemon by Pablo Neruda, translated by Jodey Bateman
Wonderbread by Alfred Corn
The Clean Platter by Ogden Nash.

The poems were suggested by Jilly Poet,Lissa, gautami tripathy, and Lirone. This was written for Patchwork Poetry.

Time and Time Again

Fluttering lightly on the wings of
fate,
I duel with time.

We fight like lions over the reins
of my tattered life.

Time- a silent foe bent on thieving with its
greedy hands.

Yet my hands are far from clean-
volatile and mean, a dirty gleam
that shines.

Still I
long to clarify the blood beating in
my veins,
heal my shame,

a reversal of my fate.

God I pray
there is still time,
time,
time.

Swirl a fantasy like good wine
around my mouth:
precious peace will rise from the ruins
of this war.

But the devil wants his due,
and all my sins I fear
I’ll never lose...

still I fight.


Note- this poem was written for a challenge at Poets Who Blog. I had to incorporate these ten words:

time
precious
reversal
clarify
volatile
silently
fantasy
flutter
peace
bent

a waterfall of
ashes
crash again my skin

hear me whisper softly
hallelujah
hallelujah

burnt remnants of
passion
leaves scars to mark my sins


pray now God will save me
hallelujah
hallelujah

pray its not too late to save me
hallelujah
hallelujah

Here I stand
my hands empty

Here I stand
bereft of dreams

Here I stand
where you left me

Here I stand
breaking softly


This poem was written in response to a prompt at Poets Who Blog Interactive. This first line comes from the Leonard Cohen song I'm Your Man.

The wind rushes in without an apology,
a storm arriving in winter hues.

You never knew me at all.


You who saw me thru hell's gates,
through the window
of the voices in my head,
through the closed curtains
of my
raw passion,
capturing the essence of life’s high noon.

Thought you knew the truth-
decoded into letters-
but what you knew
was only my
grandiose fantasies
or blatant out right lies.

Yesterday's melancholy song
still haunts.


The eager sun sneaks in bits of light
echoes of voices from afar.

All
these lonely days of blue
cut me with the bitter blades of what
you never knew. You never knew.


This is nearly a Patchwork Poem. It is composed mainly of donated lines from other poets but I had to add the lines

of my
still haunts
was only my
all.

Major thanks to Paisley, Lirone, and Lissa and Gautami Tripathy.

bring me sunshine in a cup
bring me laughter in your hands
bring me hunger then fill me up
bring me lustful grains of sands
bring me teardrops you have shed
bring me fireflies trapped in glass
bring me reasons to stay in bed
bring me ransom from my past



This poem is in response to a by a prompt at
Poefusion.

with special thanks to Paisley who did the prompt first and reading her poem inspired me to write my own.

The first line comes from an Emily Dickerson poem of the same name.

My heart knows a mystery old as life:

I have to save myself.
I have to save myself.
I have to save myself.


I know this much, my place
if I survive:

A life where hope outshines fears.
A life where hope outshines fears.
A life where hope outshines fears.


I tiptoe out of the room.
as if you were looking at me-

I have to save myself.
I have to save myself.
I have to save myself.

I leave you, my muse.
My excuse? I tore my own soul-
pushed the syringe.

Howling for help.
Howling for help.
Howling for help.

I have to save myself,
save myself,
save myself.




Note-This is a cento. Major thanks to Gautami Tripathy, Lissa, Mariacristina, Lirone, and Jilly Poet. If you would like to read more centos or like to learn how to write your own then visit Patchwork Poetry.

you are
fingers stroking keys,
stroking
stroking hope into me
you are.

you are
sun on the horizon,
liquid for the soul
you are.

you are
prayers caressing my ears,
caressing
caressing away fears
you are.

you are
phenomenal fuel
that drives this dream,
gifting wisdom and belief
you are.

you are
angels driving demons,
driving
driving away demons called
disbelief.

oh yes, you are....oh yes, you are,
you are.


Note- this poem is a thank you to all the people who read this blog and anyone who has ever left a comment. It was written in honor of Blogger Reader Appreciation Day

revolution.
revolution

human reaching out to human
lighting up store fronts and street vendors

revolution.
revolution

we were spinning hard and fast
and we cursed both god and man


revolution.
revolution.

the sound of voices sprang up with excitement
changing the colors of the city


revolution.
revolution.

crowds smothered the sidewalks
covering the hemisphere
as we walked the streets
tearing through barbed wire


revolution.
revolution.

everything suddenly moved in lighting speed
those bellowing beasts:
dream maker and dream

revolution.
revolution.


just starting a revolution.
just starting a revolution.



Thanks to paisley,mariacristina,lirone,
lissa who donated the lines above for me to use in this poem.


And major thanks to Patchwork Poetry for making this cento possible.

His Little Girl

translucent memories
quiver
when I hear you speak

little earthquakes and
rivers
form inside my head

bringing down like buildings
falling
till I’m drowning but not dead

hear me mourning, morning I will be
calling
on my God to chase away the

translucent memories

Murder, my darling

Bathe me in
my own expulsions,
my own contortions.
Words extorted.

I'll pay the price,
pay the tithe
for
stealing double portions of
this life.

Sympathize, won’t you?
This is all I know,
all I know,
all I know how to do.

Lay me in the words I’ve spewed.
Drown me in
a poem or two.

And I shall die like I have lived
gladly sinking in the words
I give
to you.

Drown me in a poem or two or two or two....

Escape

Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust,
seeking out the darkest place, to better see the light.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile.

There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't
sooner or later
drown,

deep in flower and in flesh, in star and soil and seed,
and bitter wounds on fire.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile.

No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
Deep, blue night
broken across it, and one eye is weeping
as it floats above everything.
Humans wrote the Bible
God wrote the sky.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile.


NOTE- Once again this is another patchwork poem. Each line comes from another poem. The poems used were Birches by Robert Frost, Poppies by Mary Oliver, The Word of God by Catherine Faber, and City That Does Not Sleep
by Federico García Lorca
Translated by Robert Bly.

Special thanks to Patchwork Poetryfor making this poem possible.

Constrained,
oh I'm bound,
black bruised,
strapped down

mouth full of
lost dreams and
fear
fear
fear

slams me hard with its hands
while the walls do their dance
moving closer
they laugh

for this girl is trapped


trapped
trapped

With your bitter, twisted lies
gathered around, you took my mouth,
weakened by my soulful cries,
and plunged it into your heart.

I am going to have it, you said.

Don't you take it awful hard
but you were always ambitious.


Did you want to see me broken?
Did my sexiness upset you?

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
that never ends.

Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise,
cursing holy blood at the table,
I rise,
whether or not you will make me immortal,
I rise.

You may write me down in history.

This poem does not contain any of my own words. It is a cento, patched together from these poems
Still I Rise by Maya Angelou
They Eat Out By Margaret Atwood
To Restore a Dead Child by Keith Douglas
As Children Together by Carolyn Forche

With special thanks to jillypoet, paisley, mariacristina and the patchwork poetry prompt site.

Janet Leigh tagged me for a six words memoir meme.

Fragile, broken, haunted. She spills words.

I tag Penelope, Marie,Stacey,Endi, and Soarise.


Here are your instructions:
Write your own six-word memoir.
Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like.
Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to this original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere.
Tag 5 more blogs with links.
And don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play.

By the way, this is inspired by Ernest Hemingway's famous six word story For Sale: baby shoes, never worn.

The E award

Marie, who pens fantastic tales about vampires and blogs at Deep Thinker, has given be an E for Excellence Award.

I have to pass it on to ten bloggers. I choose to honor:
Soarise
Adrian

Susan

Janet Leigh

Wandering Author

Stories of True Love

Robin

Anna

Stacey

Audrey

Despair is a hunter

fueled by the scent
of giving up
and giving in

that rises in the air
when hope has gone.

Despair has a hunger

opened mouth
it reaches in

slides into the spaces
where life should be found.

Despair came to find me

calling softly,
like a lover,

like a lover who was better
than having no one
at all.

And I should have fought him,
fought him harder than
I did,

but despair feels like home
when despair is all

there is.

Despair is a hunter...

and I am its prey.

Silent Screaming

Why don’t you just scream?
Scream if you have to.
Scream and prove you are still alive.


Your silence stifles me,

leaves me hanging,
grasping old photographs,
bitter and mute.

Looking like
the angry one to your unaffected eyes.

Smiling your deception at me
cause you’re just fine.

Fine.
Fine.
Fine.


It’s either fable or truth
and that’s based on your perception.

You who is

so happy to live your happy
little lie.

While
silently I feel us die.

I am figthing for love

but you can’t be bothered to
decide
if you even
have a thing left to say.

You move through this play
we are now pretending is
Our Good Life
like the man you think you should be.

Some picture you saw once in a magazine.
Stiff upper lip, tense manly pride.

Does that leave you satisfied?

It leaves me lacking,
after years apart from you
while you were standing right here

two feet away in our cozy kitchen

cooking up

heart hardening lies.


Words unspoken still sting.

I’ve heard everything you never said to me.
I’d rather that you would just open your mouth and


scream.



Note-

My work process for the poem posted above. It is a creation born from Patchwork Poetry.

First I found a line at Words that Sing. That inspired the whole poem. I then looked through the other poems donated and found more lines I could fit it. i was very tempted to change one word in one line but that is against the rules. Can you guess which word.

Anyway,the picture of this battle weary, stony couple formed in my mind as I wrote out the wife's inner duel between anger and anguish.

Thanks to lirone, scott, jillypoet, mariacristina and paisley for donating lines.

Spun

The oceans of time turn unafraid
of all my
futile rage.

And if I screamed out secrets,
purging my soul.
Would anyone notice

or care?

This world spins on,
like I'm not even here.


Note- This was written for Poets Who Blog Interactive Grab and Go poetry post. The darkened line is courtesy of the Random Line Generator at Poets Online.

Univited

You throw your love at me like firecrackers
sparkling into thousands of pieces,
imbued with absolutions,


and just expect me to grasp
at flames.

To bless your sacred name
like you were my savior

from sin.

Did I ever ask for saving?

Should I fall upon my knees
and give thanks,
long after you burned me now
you grant
you grant
you grant

your love.




You might think it’s a deep, deep well
any woman would be lucky to
fall in.

Not looking for a chance to swim
back into your embrace.
Not hoping you can be the one
who saves

me,

not willing to be burned or scarred.

Can’t make love out of two scorched hearts.



Note- This poem was written for Patchwork Poetry with lines donated by these poets:

mariacristina,just paisley and jilly poet.

Thanks for the inspiration.

shatter me like shells
strewn upon the beach
underneath your feet

shatter me like china
hanging on the wall,
like sun breaking nightfall

shatter me like hope
resting in a chest
another thing you left

shatter me
hard and quick and good
shatter me
shatter me
there was never a question you would.

Steady hands

tethered to my past
bound by its grip
and everything I've ever lost-
uneasy to forget.

why don't you come across
this water now,
for you know that I am sick.
need your help in this crossing now-
a reason to exist.


steady hands in hurricanes,

you always had a way
of making the awful seem
lovely-
crazy seem sane.

broken birds are innocent,
innocent they say.
and every sin will be forgiven
if you only pray.

so won't you

brush me your steady hands,
wash this anger
off my back.

keep me floating in the water,

and
make up
for all I lack.

make up for all I lack.
take me in your steady hands.

There is this second that you own.
Though most would waste it, heaven knows.
Breathe deeply before God calls you home.

For sins we later can atone-
washed clean, like water off a rose.
There is this second that you own

Buck hard against the buffer zone;
rage like wild fire on the status quo.
Breathe deeply before God calls you home.

Ride the world like a cyclone.
Leave not a breath for regrets to grow.
There is this second that you own.


Blink twice, the pages have all flown
off the calendar, fate cruelly exposed.
Breathe deeply before God calls you home.

Hope dies quick when postponed.
Dreams give in to the death throes.
There is this second that you own
Breathe deeply before God calls you home.

Note- This is my first attempt to write a villanelle.

Qualcosa di bello from Write Away was nice enough to give me a



Roar for Powerful Words Award.

Part of receiving this is that I must list three things I believe is necessary to make writing good and powerful.

Be fearless in your creating- Do not hold back because your mother, spouse, boss or best friend might read it and judge you. Write your truth. Delve your deepest emotions and infuse your work with the essence of them.

Be vicious with your editing- Each word should be on the page for a reason. It should help to paint your picture, to tell your story. I always say that each word should be put on trial for its life. Each word must carry the reader forward, never letting them lose their focus or way.

Keep working on it till you love it- The words should wash over you like a song, whether it is poetry or fiction. They should flow like a rushing river that transcends the every day world. If you can fall in love with your work, then it will be good and powerful for you, and maybe for the rest of the world too.

I must pass this award on to five bloggers whose work I admire:


Marie at Deep Thinker
Penelope from Cafe at the End of the Universe
JM from Fallen Words
Shakir at The Crimsonflaw Lived to Tell the Tale
Rax at Soul Phantasm

A curse
he harbored within his soul-
secrets making that
young man
old

before his time.

Deny,
deny,
deny.

Till the acid of those lies
bled
like internal sores and his mouth
could deny
no more.

He slammed
bricks of truth
on the wood floor.






***The last sentence comes from Mariacristina, who donated it at Poets Who Blog Interactive.
Feel free to stop by and take part in our poetry prompts there.

Beloved

Wipe the snow off your grave,
trace
my finger over your name.

I do this in remembrance...
I do this in remembrance...
I do this in remembrance...

Press the roses that you gave,
stroke
the memories like a flame.

I do this in remembrance...
I do this in remembrance...
I do this in remembrance...

You're every glint that’s in my mirror,
You're every shadow on my wall.

In every breeze
I'm sure I hear you.

I’m dancing with the ghost that you are.


I do this in remembrance...
I do this in remembrance...
I do this....




NOTE- This was written for Poets Who Blog Interactive’s Pick and Pull Prompt.

....and in the end,
it falls the same.

one breath
left.

one blink remains.

the best to
hope for,

all things the same,


your hand to hold

as I
drift away.


Note- This was written for Poets Who Blogs. The prompt was Comfort.

Its
running fast into the wind.

And its
swimming far away from shore.

It's
swinging hard at fragile glass,
kicking down steel doors!

Riding out all my fears
while I spill these words,
spill these sins,

see my blood
stain my skin.

Cut me open-
watch
the world crawl right in.

Make no apology for who I am-

This
is what it is,
this is what
it is.



Note- This poem was written for the Poets Who Blog prompt: What Poetry Means to Me.It describes how it feels like to me to create a poem, which at its purest forms is, imo, putting the rawest part of you on display for the world to see.