1
six fortune seekers
drilled holes in eternity
so much chimney smoke

2
bottom of the well
the remnants of spent wishes
glint like winking coins

3
this unruly night
tosses limbs across windows
shifting dream’s deep pit

4
splits in consciousness
de ja vu like worry stones
polished sheets of sleep

5
dawn drinks mist’s sweetness
dissipating its wet cloak
cliffs begin to sing

6
flapping breast and wing
mourning dove whistles a beat
exhaling daybreak

7
grackles like habits
assemble in seed-strewn grass
breakfast at first light

8
puppy stretches breath
across porcelain mornings
padding through the dew

9
puppy teeth rip flesh
unintended injuries
little welts of love

Brenda Warren 2014

Berkeley P. Beagle

Visit The Sunday Whirl

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

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

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