Tag: poet

a painting in vengeance (20161102)

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there is no reason to look
in your direction any more

this portrait is done

sallow yellows and sickly greens
of a soul split open like a rotted pear
dark bruised purple of pride
swelling just under the eyes
the whimpering greys of despair
running in streaks through your hair
casting ashes on your skin
and the reds
anger–blind rage–just blindness

so many drops, so much crimson
a shower of blood
that would make a butcher invest
in an umbrella

——

for
as everything turns grey
writing prompts by J.R.Rogue and Kat Savage
1. A Painting in Vengeance

the runcheon rattles

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file2651310428158
photo by Driscoll

the runcheon rattles, its chains are long
it keens a ghostly murder song
upon the moors, upon the heath
with rasping, fetid, icy breath

the runcheon rattles, its chains unwind
with wailing moan it hunts though blind
across the meadow, out of the wood
where no child ventures whose soul is good

the runcheon rattles, its chains pulled taut
’tis bloody though it lacks a heart
amidst the town, within the lane
it shudders in the cold and rain

the runcheon rattles, its chains a ruin
its labored breath a grating tune
beyond the hedge, through the gate
it tarries not lest it be late

the runcheon rattles, by chains unbound
all too soon its prey’s been found
upon your hearth a sudden frost
the runcheon rattles–and you are lost

we all fall down (20161027)

crow2 Comments

i turn out my pockets
to prove i have nothing
left of you in my

possession
and am surprised
to find

ashes, a little salt,
a brittle molar hollowed
out by those twin mice

regret and despair
and what could be a
hummingbird’s heart

–beating or still i cannot
say–but composed entirely
of smoke

——

for
The Daily Post
Daily Prompt: Smoke

cloudy morning (20161024)

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morning rain washes
everything clean
sidewalks, streets
air heaves with petrichor
and the scent of eucalyptus
thin crescent moon wanes overhead
masquerading as a wisp of cloud

today, two cars make u turns
in the middle of the street
what is not forbidden
is implicitly allowed

the sun, that smug bastard
burns through clouds
ruining this autumnal dream

but he draws my eye
like a pointed finger

two silhouettes
against a brighter bank
two souls
rising up on shafts of light

or a pair of angels
falling in slow
motion