A is for Alacrity
an antiquated term,

displaced in deed by indolence,
lethargy, and sloth—

displaced in phrase with eager cheer

alacrity is lost.



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
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,

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


Visit The Sunday Whirl


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


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


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
On their meteoric rise to
“I’m so cool
You insignificant
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


Visit the Sunday Whirl

Their They

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


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
Will be the final straw
Will open
Their eyes
Their hearts
Their minds
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

And I wonder,
Am I their they?

Brenda Warren 2017

Sing a Song So Senseless

My flimsy memory falters
In traces ‘round the sun
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


Visit The Sunday Whirl


In this dark nation where votes
Empty opportunity
While crowds cheer
I feel baffled
I fear the fruits of ignorance
Polished and waxed
By those truly tasting
Authority’s glory
They see themselves reflected
In the smiling face of fuck you
Smug. A little bit richer than before
They spin their crime like a top
Whirring and blurring
Our nation’s deep loss

Brenda Warren 2017

day 29

lace curtains spiral patterns on the floor
mimicking breezes
sending prayers to the saints who can save her life

for RB

Paint her a saint
To stand by her side
Righteous & unafraid
A sum of all prayers
Wavering curtains
Veil the pain in her eyes

Regret forms like foam on the sea

Paint her a saint
With anchors to hold her
Tethered & grounded
Through life’s torrid swells
Teach her to weather
Storms that she runs from

Her body lists left when she sings

Paint her a saint
Covered with flowers
Vibrant & benevolent
Settle her sullied spirit
With blooming white zinnias
Wreathed and weaved into wings

She knows she’s alive when she bleeds

Brenda Warren 2017