Magpie

Magpie those diamonds
glint in dark eyes
silent, like strangers
stroking my thighs.

Secret smooth steel
shed feathers like martyrs,
crazy black crispy
childhood lies.

Sharpening shivers,
Trickster wisps by,
prisoner of laughter,
mimics my cry.

Beneath the tree
upon my back
into the sky
I stare.

Your feathers shine
iridescent circles,
shadows that fan
the biting flames I hide.

Brenda Warren 2014

 

Notes:  I started this piece yesterday, and was not satisfied.  Three times, while walking the dogs, a magpie yelled at me.  The magpie worked its way into this piece.  The piece started with “you” rather than “I” but confusion between the narrator and magpie ensued.  Thus, the narrator is an “I.”

Visit The Sunday Whirl

Visit The Sunday Whirl

 

Raw

my name falls broken from your lips
dis-
connected
hidden beneath sheets of speech
decoding my existence

is it me you hate?
or is it the reflection of yourself
you sense in my life
like unwritten poems
vital but stripped bare
where gnats
swim circles in goblets
and red wine sighs its ripples
down your throat

turning away you mutter about
irony, signs, and metaphors
while I tread wine
with the gnats
in your glass

Brenda Warren 2014

 

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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

 

jr

untitled

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.

Jump!

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

Whirlku

1
six fortune seekers
drilled holes in eternity
so much chimney smoke

2
bottom of the well
the remnants of spent wishes
glint like winking coins

3
this unruly night
tosses limbs across windows
shifting dream’s deep pit

4
splits in consciousness
de ja vu like worry stones
polished sheets of sleep

5
dawn drinks mist’s sweetness
dissipating its wet cloak
cliffs begin to sing

6
flapping breast and wing
mourning dove whistles a beat
exhaling daybreak

7
grackles like habits
assemble in seed-strewn grass
breakfast at first light

8
puppy stretches breath
across porcelain mornings
padding through the dew

9
puppy teeth rip flesh
unintended injuries
little welts of love

 

Brenda Warren 2014

IMG_8518

Berkeley P. Beagle

 

165

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aftermath

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

 

164

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Whispered Wisdom

Tear off the mask,
your face is glorious!
~Rumi

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

floater

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.

800px-Nymphalis_antiopa_(Suruvaippa)

Mourning Cloak image from Wikipedia