That one lady, That nut.

That one lady
That nut
She
Simmered color
In waves

When She laughed
It burst
Like rain from high white clouds

In her mind
Nothing mattered
But the angle of her throat
When her head tipped back
Babbling brooks
like sunshine spilled
If She could bottle it and label it She would

Waves of Babbling Sunshine
Sure to shiver your timbers
Shimmering diamonds mixed with
Your eyes
Spread your thighs
Be wise

That one lady
That nut
Fruit punch
Drinks too much
Down below the surface
She knew She’d won
‘Nothing’s at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box’
Everything She never needed
She received for free

Empty chains evaded her privilege
She laughed
Until she cried
Lifting
Her disguise

That one lady
That nut

Did you see her over there?
Breathing color,
Eating popcorn from a box.

-bwarren 17

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Nothing’s at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box is a line from Meatloaf’s song, ‘Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad.’

She just can’t.

A storm of words
Creams the poet

Her solipsistic need for walls
Collapses as
Everything she flees
She faces
She skins bare her soul
Ripping labels from life’s undoing
Brutally unmasking the corrugated
Landscapes that box her in

Her peculiar scorn exposed
She spirals round its eye
Singing

see? See?

It’s not so bad

She digs at her scabs
to watch herself bleed.

bw / 17

Alacrity

A is for Alacrity
an antiquated term,

displaced in deed by indolence,
lethargy, and sloth—

displaced in phrase with eager cheer

alacrity is lost.

~BW

21-120716

Note: New to ABC Wednesday, I’m looking forward to making new writing connections. To keep me going, I’ve come up with a gimmick to drive my posts. Each week, undercaws will feature an English word not in the common vernacular.

Alacrity: promptness in response :  cheerful readiness

To the guy in the White House who claims to cherish women

I am a woman.
What is it about us
that makes you see us bleed?
From our faces.
From our eyes.
From our wherever.

How can you cherish women
when you call us
fat pigs
dogs
slobs
bimbos
disgusting animals
a piece of ass?

You do not cherish women.
You loathe us.
You fear us.
You see us as objects.

Literally and metaphorically,
you fuck us.

What transpired to create you?
Were you born this way?
Did your mother love you?

Or is it true that monsters are fed,
not made?

I hope your supporters wake up.
I hope they understand what it means
to honor women.

I hope they stop feeding you.

We need to show
the sons and daughters of today
how not to be you,
tomorrow.

Brenda Warren

Sheer Spun and Billowy

Drunk and rooted, our
words billow like tattered sails

scattering meaning across
red vinyl booths that

curve us into this circle of faces,
where we snatch

single moments like
specks in eyes

let loose by lashes in the
blink of time–

sly, like dust
with its sheer spun sugary shine,

all glittery and shit.
We forget about that sometimes.

Brenda Warren 2017

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Visit The Sunday Whirl

Handprints

Threads stitch
Lines through our hearts
Broken by the space
Between apart and now

We falter

Spinning our wheels
Yearning touch
Hand prints on wet windows
Where echoes ring rivulets
That seep beneath our skin
Gnawing air
Like butterfly wings we blow
Until the sugar falls off
And all that’s left is gasps

Words, pierced mid-syllable
By needles
Filled with ink
So it sticks
Like a whistle through our lips

So many stitched-tight lines
It’s easy to forget how things spin

Brenda Warren 2017

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Visit The Sunday Whirl

Something Sacred Fills Our Sway

For Len

Your touch ripples me liquid
Swelling tides within
As whispers of miracles
Drop like pins
Summoning angels
Dancing a trance

Water moves through our low spots
Surging sighs
That ebb our flow
Until shores reemerge
Spent with foam
And soft sweet sleep
Evens our tide

Brenda Warren 2017

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Visit The Sunday Whirl

Letting Go

There was no groove for me
No gifted island of misfit toys
That salved mercy through my puberty
I cowered beneath the piercing eyes
Of peers
Calling me Spaz
Jeering
Leering
Profiteering
On their meteoric rise to
“I’m so cool
You insignificant
Maggot
Watch me squash you”

It cost me
My serenity

It powdered me empty
A spare
Bound by malevolence
I clung to hissed taunts
Echoed in faces
With voices that glared

Years passed
Before I learned
To breathe my way free

A gift of letting go

Brenda Warren 2017

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Visit the Sunday Whirl

Their Their

I have a confession to make
There’s this nagging thought
Almost ever present
Maybe fueled by hope
Maybe fueled by love
Maybe it’s absolutely ludicrous

Still

I keep thinking
That they will
Wake up
That they will
Smell the proverbial coffee
That they will
See the error of their
Voting ways

Almost daily I think
This!
Will be the final straw
This!
Will open
Their eyes
Their hearts
Their minds
This!
Will save
Our freedoms
Our health
Our planet

Almost daily
Disappointment trails
Behind my hope

But I’m not ready to let it go

So here we are
Divided

And I wonder,
Am I their their?

Brenda Warren 2017

Sing a Song So Senseless

My flimsy memory falters
In traces ‘round the sun
Stilted
Laughing
Seemingly undone

Sing a song of poesy
A pocket full of lines
Where messages
Composed in threes
Like waiting wishes lie

Flooded trips
That hide their shine
Forever wonder why
That run of blackbirds
Circles by

I’m baked into a Big Sky pie

Brenda Warren 2017

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Visit The Sunday Whirl