Good Omens

bald eagle rising
a head’s up penny
the fox that taunts my good hound dog
completed puzzles
that lone white wolf
double yolks
a crocus pushing through snow

~bwarren 23

Day 7 asked for a list poem.

Not that Mercy

Not that tenuous flamingo
red in its wetness
it drips in pieces
cursing its too thin legs
tripping over memories of Mumbai

Not that antelope
stirring images of Delhi
it strays from the herd
pounding its hooved feet
on elephant hides
long since dried into pavement

Not that child
hiding in the well
watching time devour coins
that pass for wishes

Not that vulture
shredding flesh from courtyards
raging against a too blue sky

Have mercy on the pitiless
lost in power
lost in the handle of an axe

Have mercy on that child
whose prayers flutter as flamingo knees knock

Have mercy on the vulture circling with
strips of flesh that flow
like ribbons
scattering syllables
with each thwack
of the executioner’s axe

~bwarren 23
The prompt for Day 6 asked that we look at a poem in a language we do not read, and write a poem based on it. The poem I selected can be found here. To be honest, I read it in English once, and based the poem on my impressions from both the English and Peter Verhelst’s original poem.

You are always right.

Anger eats a hole in your heart

you try to fill it with straw and denial
but teeth push up through the edges of the hole
and feed on the pumping muscled flesh
widening your vitriol
feeding on the bile you spit against
anyone’s apology

refusing to accept responsibility for wrongs
perceived and real
your heart feeds on
you did nothing
and don’t understand why
other people widen their berth, stifled laughter turning to
pity as you pass, your chin turned up in defiance
face twitching against your heart’s dying pleas

you deserve so much more

bwarren 23
Day 5 prompt.

Ant Karma

In the kitchen
A never ending line of worker ants
1 by 1
They gather kernels of rice and dry cat food

After I poison them,
Their lines develop uncertainty
Swirling in circles
yet moving their heads
in creepy ant surveillance mode
Plotting their revenge
Their comeback for
For hoping they perish
And never appear in my kitchen again

Their numbers
ebb and flow
Ebb and flow
Through cycles of lines and swirls

I visualize the Orkin Man and worry
That I might build bad ant karma.

What if it never ends?

~bwarren 23

How to be direct

Hackles Rise
Hisses hiss
Asses are exposed to kiss

Here. sit
Breathe in intention
Breathe out reaction
Breathe in reflection
Breathe out affection

dream yourself a bird

Breathe out feathers
preened and tattered

Remember that pheasant? Roadkill you threw in the way back?

Two weeks later, I looked for that bird and found it teaming with maggots whose wet bodies wormed round the shaft of its quills feeding on the flesh of the pheasant left for dead.
Unimportant roadkill
Thrown in the way back

What does any of this have to do with hackles and rewards?

Or how to be direct.

Evasive. That’s what it is I’ve learned to do: toss word salad.

~bwarren 23

Day Three – off prompt


a holy choir of trees lines
rows of white folding chairs
like a song with no music

a child shoos a fluttering of magpies while
a red-winged blackbird screeches circles around the bride
her wedding dress covered in hand-stitched crystal rhinestones and pearls
the bullet flies back into the barrel of the gun
as crows march down Main Street

stopping to peck at horse manure from yesterday’s wedding march parade

~bwarren 23

The day 2 prompt birthed this one.


this impenetrable image whispers hints
of my face
of my fashion
of my privilege
of my light

who was I ?

slivers of recognition stand upon spindles
as fragile as flamingo legs
all bone
no muscle
ready to snap into panic

startle me
wake me without breath

keep me from decaying in daguerreotypes

~bwarren 23

While chasing today’s NaPo prompt, a link led me to Decayed Daguerreotypes. The images I viewed threaded today’s poem. My engine has started.


the imperceptible rise and fall of your chest draws me near until your scent overwhelms memories into being

I tiptoe through moments of us so dear water fills my eyes

And then —
there it is, perceptibly

your chest rises my sighs
through its breath
and I settle into knowing
you’re still here


bwarren 23

Driving Home

driving home
from home
as white as the roads
the sky
the trees
my face
on white
on white
on white
binding my freedom
filling it with thoughts of ditches
of metal on metal
bleeding oil
bleeding gas
bleeding me

my side of the highway
drifted over
it pulls Mona’s wheels like an undercurrent
this way
and that

her electric blue must look beautiful from above
straining against the white
striving like a salmon to get back home

~bwarren 22