Rockford’s Files

James Garner ate potatoes and apples.
He’s dead now.

Connections shatter and form,
as Rockford’s files
flutter through television’s memoried past.

Model tobacco scratches my back.
Oranges are not the only fruit.

The smell of potatoes frying
lights me on fire,
as apples delicious
drip juices suspicious
across Jim Rockford’s smile.

Brenda Warren 2014

Visit The Mag

Visit The Mag




Swarming through summer
words without sound
heel toe their way across
needle and stone,
log and bone,
rotating forests
and flushing creatures,
feathered and formidable
out of magic’s cauldron
onto passion’s page.


Fluttering throaty calls
lumber around deadfall
where shadows form a hum
that hangs fear between ears
storming insistence
spreading a buzz
while words without sound
heel toe retreat
striving to thrive in silence.

Brenda Warren 2014

Visit The Sunday Whirl

Visit The Sunday Whirl


six fortune seekers
drilled holes in eternity
so much chimney smoke

bottom of the well
the remnants of spent wishes
glint like winking coins

this unruly night
tosses limbs across windows
shifting dream’s deep pit

splits in consciousness
de ja vu like worry stones
polished sheets of sleep

dawn drinks mist’s sweetness
dissipating its wet cloak
cliffs begin to sing

flapping breast and wing
mourning dove whistles a beat
exhaling daybreak

grackles like habits
assemble in seed-strewn grass
breakfast at first light

puppy stretches breath
across porcelain mornings
padding through the dew

puppy teeth rip flesh
unintended injuries
little welts of love


Brenda Warren 2014


Berkeley P. Beagle



Visit The Sunday Whirl


Visions sizzle this dark night orange
stomping power
stomping pain
stomping heaving sobs of rain.

In this place where I’ve landed
language is muffled
and sleep jumps numbers like sheep.

Back up.

Where am I?
Single in repose.

Up -rightness averts its existence
with eyes that won’t say hello.

Nothing can fix anything 
that can’t learn
to let it be.

Brenda Warren 2014



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Whispered Wisdom

Tear off the mask,
your face is glorious!

Stuck a flutter
those eyes north of your smile
seek a need so deep
your faux face mates a dis-
connect squeaked clean in mirrors.

Beneath your vain visage,
pieced together with luminescent
pigeon feed,
a real person dwells.

Fearing laughter’s cracks
you survey your composure
reporting aging’s reproach.

(Some butterflies live less than a month.)

Treat yourself to natural hair color,
schedule a meeting
where your real face sees the world.

Before you crack,
let it be.


Brenda Warren 2014


Visit The Sunday Whirl

Visit The Sunday Whirl

Mourning Cloaks Rising


image by Martin Stranka


After gashing her soul through yesterday’s mirror
her blood spilled in fallow fields
nurturing tomorrow’s sacred grove
whose leaves swirled around her rising form.

Her body settled into the low spaces
placing her life on hold.

Thought dissipated
into a kaleidoscope of mourning cloaks
whose collective fluttering murmured
liniment across a darkened sky,
surprised into night by a flight of butterflies.

Brenda Warren 2014

Note: The Mourning Cloak is a butterfly; it is also Montana’s state insect.

Thank you to Tess at The Mag for the ekphrastic inspiration.


Mourning Cloak image from Wikipedia


Clumsy dreams rattle her blood
crossing the land, turning to sand
like ground glass glittering through infinity’s curves.

Winter won’t listen to the sound of her name,
and shattering axes cleave dreams that vanish in vain.

Lost sky settles over a desert oasis set against stone,
where lodge pole pine trees rub their moan.

Brenda Warren 2014

Visit The Sunday Whirl

Visit The Sunday Whirl

Crazy Angel

Chair with the Wings of a Vulture ~ Salvador Dali

Chair with the Wings of a Vulture ~ Salvador Dali


Orbs in rows
shine hallelujahs
as the crazy angel
spreads vulture wings
above strait jacket spoons
that nail her to the wall.

Her restricted thoughts radiate
like spokes in a tireless wheel,
a beautiful nimbus flowing
beneath the cross of Jesus.

A nautilus shell
spins circles beneath stories,
and the crazy angel wonders
why she never bleeds.

Brenda Warren 2014

Thank you to Salvador Dali, Tess Kincaid, and The Mag for ekphrastic inspiration.