Between the Roots of Things

Dwelling between the roots of things
the body rotted, devoid of clothing,
wrapped in a bright flannel shroud
that became jelly as it folded into decaying flesh,
moistening the soil, an energy exchange.

Waking beneath winter
baby’s breath grew like weeds
ripening summer in white ripples of rare sweetness
defended against an age of debauchery

that left only bones and threads of brilliant cotton
to feed the tiny white flowers
breathing toward eternity.

Brenda Warren 2014

Thank you to my poet friend Elizabeth for the inspiration to keep writing, and the words provided on Day 14. She wrote a poem that I spring boarded into this piece. You can find hers here:  Down Beneath the Roots of Things.

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Porcelain Memories

Porcelain memories
wrapped in burlap,
trapped beneath a moonlit chant,
lie shoveled-over in limbo
and left for dead.

A deeply wet spring germinates
gaudy paper poppies
that briefly turn their translucent
wrists in the wind,
until seasons dry and snap
their heads, and then start
swearing their secrets in seeds.

Porcelain memories
packaged in poppies
bubble to the surface
of everything
they never claimed to be.

 

Brenda Warren 2014

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156

Visit The Sunday Whirl

cat words

Mission on laptop.
Day twelve’s elusive words wait,
captured under cat.

Brenda Warren 2014

Mission is the cat’s name. It’s 9:49 on Day 12, and I’ve run out of inspiration.

rattle me

shake me up like music
make me wanna drum
palm, heel, fingers, thumbs

rotating rhythms,
thrumming and taut,
stretched like a string
over all that is naught

drumming the dirt,
palming my thighs,
palpating tender
under cloudy skies

rattle me
roll me
make me pay a toll
give me back the life we lived
before you chose to blow

shake me up like music,
make me wanna drum
palm, heel, fingers, thumbs

Brenda Warren 2014

For Elizabeth’s Day 9.

 

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