Wild Purple Violets

The quarter-sized leaves
of these wild purple violets pulse green
beneath morning’s tangle of death.

Battered brown oak leaves veil
mangled fur and flesh.

A hint of cottontail peeks
above back legs, oddly stretched out
like when they propelled its living hop,
shining up against the green,
before last night’s violence
made this baby bunny scream.

Brenda Warren 2016

Notes: The annihilated bunny was near the bird feeder this morning. It’s April, so it became a poem. Poor little critter. If it screamed, I didn’t hear it, but this was certainly a proper occasion.

 

He Laughs

Scars that you can’t see
get their ache all up in me
reverberating memory
of he who claims to be
a prophet.

His tools of madness
climb my sin.
Up and in.
Unholy visions
smoke and wine
hills too steep for
light to shine.

Everything we don’t do now
we’re going to do later,
he laughs.

I hide fire
close beneath my naked
-ness.

Scars that you can’t see
get their ache all up in me
reverberating memory
of he who claims to be
a prophet.

 

Brenda Warren 2016

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Spring Etheree, Make it a Double

Fresh
pastels
awaken
across branches
embellishing trees.
In Pandora’s gardens
blossoms revel in release,
flouncing layer after layer
of petal pushing vivacity.
Birds gather fallen foliage for nests.
Squirrels give chase, bouncing across branches.
And rain? Maybe love is in the rain.
Incessant showers in April
encourage roots to feed Earth’s
aphrodisiac blooms.
Compelling trees to
green their branches,
hiding spots
for spring’s
nests.

Brenda Warren 2016

image

Can you see the bee?                                            ~  BWarren 2016

Notes:
This poem is a double etheree written for the NaPoWriMo prompt for today, and for Elizabeth’s prompt. It’s Earth Day. Love your mother.

An etheree consists of 10 lines of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 syllables. A double etheree consists of 20 lines of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 syllables.

napofeature4

strings

image

 

Notes: I downloaded a magnetic poetry app that allows me to create my own words and use my own pics. It’s one way I can coax my absent muse into playing along. Other than my name, I only used words included in the app. I did change tenses.

Garden Nonsense

Shattering grackles
flash like obsidian
until darkness swallows fecund graves.
Drums keen between strips of wailing roots
surrounding translucent grubs
that emerge as Japanese beetles
and eat every damn grape leaf in town.
Not to mention roses.

It’s a sign, I tell you.
Times are tight.

Brenda Warren 2016

IMG_9976

Japanese Beetles in Action 2015

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Piggy the Wonder Dog

Get away from me you dumb flipping dog.
You circle around with your stinky oozing paw, limping.
The floor recoils from your touch.
You are oil to my water.
Piggy the Wonder Dog. You used to jump through
hula hoops in a single bound, sporting that Mohawk
like nobody’s business. Looking so fine, like a circus dog.
What is he? people would ask. ‘e’s a Dingo! we’d say.
Jonesing to ride a monkey’s back into somebody’s notice me life,
insistent like rain that won’t let up.
You make me want to shoot you in the head.
Fireworks.
Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
You are our escape from reality
and no one wants you to die.
I imagine playing with you when you were a puppy.
We could have gone camping to Yellowstone
or chased our dreams across Hill 57.

Brenda Warren 2016

piggy

Piggy the Wonder Dog 2015

If you want to see the prompt that brought me here visit Elizabeth’s 1sojournal. Piggy deserves a long story, and one of these days he will get one. He is still here, but age and infirmities complicate things for him.

Blink

Maybe it was a mistake to stop breathing,
to audibly gasp at absurdity.
Death needs no reason
to creep its rattle up your throat
and turn you into glue
like so many spent horses.

Blink.

Brenda Warren 2016

Giving Chase

Stretching toward tedium, I look out the window.
Squirrels run across the stones outlining my flowerbed—
pieces of petrified wood that hold ancient secrets,
old stories that rattle with feather and song.
Thomas Little Shell looked out the hole of a sweat lodge where his friend
walked toward an aspen grove before the edge of sight.
Thomas blinked and a deer was there, blinking back at him.
It lifted its chin toward Thomas, then vanished beyond the grove.
Pieces of petrified wood carry lost stories and whisper
against the rain of forgotten years.
I am the stones that line my garden. I am Thomas. I am the deer.
It is April and it rains all day.
Mary Oliver wrote of rain. and stone. and deer.
I remember holding her tree filled with stars.
I am the stars. I am that tree. I am Mary Oliver. I am rain.
I am dreaming. Away from this garden, I fly. Above
this poem rising from petrified forests morphing into deer
where squirrels give chase to stories past my window.

Brenda Warren 2016

Notes: The block announces itself whenever I sit down to write. Today I tackled it with an old prompt that I first used in 2011. It’s strangely convoluted, and grappling with it this morning was both arduous and fun. Of course, I took plenty of liberties with it.

If you feel so inclined, take the prompt and give chase. Let me know if you do. I’d love to see what it helps you produce.

1. A feeling
2. Observe the scenery of your immediate surroundings
3. Personification of an inanimate object
4. Use a metaphor
5. Spend four lines recalling a prominent memory
6. Use symbolism in a statement
7. Associate some form of weather to the feeling in #1
8. Tell a lie, about anything
9. Make a reference to a holiday or season
10. State a fact about a favorite artist or poet
11. Compare yourself to a specific piece from the artist/poet you used in #10
12. Negate the lie you told in #8, or further support or restate it
13. Describe a daydream or parts of a dream you’ve had
14. For the last two lines, refer to a vacationing location

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I’m also writing at Elizabeth’s place this month, where she has been providing helpful daily fodder.

Blocked

Words disappear like toads in underbrush,
croaking and invisible,
protected from above by their thorny destination,
while the soft fertile comfort of ground moss below
caresses their rumbling underbelly of vowels.
Forgetting to form syllables
consonants recline,
forsaking words,
sitting sweet in the deep.

Brenda Warren 2016

toad

iPhone Toad  ~  bwarren

Thanks for your gentle suggestions this month, Elizabeth. You are helping me persevere!