Somewhere along the way I found out
being called Spaz on the playground
only mocked misunderstanding,
not me.

Somewhere along the way I found
myself flawed and fertile
ready to be plucked
tattoed and fuck you’d.
Mess with me.
I dare ya.
Black veins ran cold
through my turquoise heart.

Now Spaz spins spider webs,
ensaring leeches
that feed on my heart.
One by one she wraps
threads of black on black
until they burn, heating
veins in this tumbled blue heart

that somewhere along the way discovered
twinkling eyes grow when love
sluices anger clean.

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This poem is in response to a prompt at Tuesday Tryouts over at Margo Roby’s Wordgathering.

 white to black gradations
corrugate lines that
gather at a central fertile nub
an amphitheater where
droplets converge to
witness light’s slow miracles

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The inspiration for this piece is a picture by Adam Romanowicz. You can click on the picture to visit his website. A shout out to One Stop Poetry for an interview with Romanowicz. Visit the link for more inspired writes.

Piano riffs ran through Lane’s brain to cover thoughts of Lola. That skull in the picture didn’t have the flecks of yellow in Lola’s brown eyes, but Lane felt connected to its shape and knew it was her. The third movement of Tchaikovsky’s piano concerto No. 3 in E-flat flew Lane outside of his Amtrak berth soaring over unfamiliar landscapes. An eagle touched him with the tip of his black feathered wing. Rapid-fire knocking landed Lane abruptly. The detective was back. He met Lane’s eye through the window and entered his space. “I hate to interrupt your reverie,” he put quotes in the air around the word reverie and rolled his eyes as he said it, “but I believe this keyboard belongs to you?” Lane hated when anyone posed questions as answers, and he hated this cop for questioning him at all with his dumbass way of saying one thing while implying another.  Lane didn’t kill Lola but he knew the person who did, and he knew that person already paid for his crime.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The prompt over at One Stop Poetry today asked that we write a story opener. The set-up is there, go take a look, see how others began this murderous train journey.

1: living room

Tiny russet spots
dance like molecules
over the mushroom
expanse of my overstuffed
couch
a rug braids its oval self
on top of long thin slats of oak
staggered together side by side
flooring my world

floor to ceiling shelves spill
over with books, a Buddha, and dragons
budded stems
pruned from a sweet Adelaide rosebush
waft scents from a
knotty pine table with sturdy square
legs that tame the
red yellow green tan
threads ovaling beneath it
my father fashioned the table magic
with a lid that hinges open on springs
pull the top up and
work or eat in luxury
in front of our big ass plasma television
that frightened me when it first arrived
but gradually became the norm
in the morning it sits quietly
while words find their way from the air to my computer

2: pianos and birds

In the great room
Sophia swings and squawks the morning alive
a pirate parrot, queen of the salty sea
her red life drowns itself dry
in a house in Montana
feathered friend
sorrow surrounds you
in me
my super sweet wish is to see you fly free

sometimes the birds and I sing
while their pupils dilate and constrict
we rock out the long morning hours of summer
later Len rips out ragtime tunes on the Baldwin upright
as LB the black-cheeked conure bobs and weaves on his shoulder
when he switches to Beethoven or old Christian hymns
LB swoons

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The prompt from Pamela Sayers and We Write Poems asked that we record observations, preferrably from the place where we write. I write on the couch in the living room, usually when I’m home alone so the tv is off. 🙂 The birds’ squawking is always nearby.