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
Visit The Sunday Whirl
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
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.
Mourning Cloak image from Wikipedia
Clumsy dreams rattle her blood
crossing the land, turning to sand
like ground glass glittering through infinity’s curves.
Winter won’t listen to the sound of her name,
and shattering axes cleave dreams that vanish in vain.
Lost sky settles over a desert oasis set against stone,
where lodge pole pine trees rub their moan.
Brenda Warren 2014
Visit The Sunday Whirl
Chair with the Wings of a Vulture ~ Salvador Dali
Orbs in rows
shine hallelujahs
as the crazy angel
spreads vulture wings
above strait jacket spoons
that nail her to the wall.
Her restricted thoughts radiate
like spokes in a tireless wheel,
a beautiful nimbus flowing
beneath the cross of Jesus.
A nautilus shell
spins circles beneath stories,
and the crazy angel wonders
why she never bleeds.
Brenda Warren 2014
Thank you to Salvador Dali, Tess Kincaid, and The Mag for ekphrastic inspiration.
his broken words
arise in waves like blackbirds
flocking over hedgerows
denying light its wings
he speaks freedom
like a tripwire
eyes turn skyward
as screeching syllables see
life’s moments explode
scattering black feathers
everywhere
a veritable night
Brenda Warren 2014
Visit The Sunday Whirl
The crabapple blossom blizzards
in the courtyards of my school
are nothing short of miraculous.
Random patterns swirl their cool.
Instruction changes course
as we line up at the windows,
making room
for nature’s viewing.
This year’s blooming
due in May.
Brenda Warren 2014
Tattooist, that woodpecker
his bedazzled beak bounces ink in her skin
as clocks tick chocolate down her throat.
Salvador Dali dies in Figueres, Spain,
and clocks tick empty in her head.
(it’s almost time
oy vey
the future falls back before eyes
deja vu )
The pierced artist of trunks chuckles,
laughing into negative space
spewing color with no intent.
Ink spreads Jonesy’s impulsivity across her shoulders,
she will love it when she’s old.
Beneath the tattoo artist’s penetrating beak,
she relishes colors’ crazy scent.
de colores
His bedazzled beak bleeds melting clocks
against her shoulders broad expanse.
Brenda Warren 2014
an apple
with poisonous seeds
it carries temptation
bittersweet
a serpent
a slither to hiss
through low hanging branches
writhes round vines
arouses your soul
an apple hangs low
so some stories go
beat a drum
Brenda Warren 2014
A Play in One Act
(Title question posed in dog’s voice from off-stage.
Dog enters room, jumps on couch)
Oh yeah…
Word is
I can’t see color.
I’m a dog.
A dog with a human.
A human with a blog.
She fashions herself literary
like that shiny bitten apple
flashing its light
enticing your collective serpent soul
(don’t tell me that apple wasn’t a plant
to root spending’s glorious growth).
You humans are messed up.
Give me a field filled with dog poo
and gopher holes any day.
And turn off your colors.
Distracters destroy
the living breathing world
right under your nose.
(Dog jumps off couch
and exits, nose to carpet,
no looking back.)
Brenda Warren 2014
Thank you to Tess at The Mag for the ekphrastic inspiration for this piece.
Adventures in Poetry and Writing
brenda warren
Reclaiming my inner badass at 50
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poetry by nicolas ryan brown.
Writing for Wholeness
Waiting on Words
A Feminist Literary Collective (& outlaw poets swearing)
"What a strange bundle of consistent inconsistencies we all are." Mary Ronan
The weather and the light are just different out here...and sometimes you have to find the words for things.
My poetry is my religion.
Sunshine on Razor Wire: perspectives from "inside"
Be inspired...Be creative...Be peace...Be
a weekly flash fiction prompt inspired by google maps
Observations from the loose nut behind the wheel.
spiritual enlightenment and self improvement
In real life.....
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