Women dance themselves sacred
beneath a blood moon,
twirling to reveal
ragged edges of secrets
whispering from waves.
Cascading skirts mesmerize
beneath serpentine arms.
sporadic caws, hoots, and howls.
Brenda Warren 2014
Written for Elizabeth’s Day 16 prompt.
Chimpanzees pant-hoot.
Auditions complete.
Variety show lineup
posted tomorrow.
Brenda Warren 2014
Dwelling between the roots of things
the body rotted, devoid of clothing,
wrapped in a bright flannel shroud
jellied in folds, moistening the soil,
an energy exchange.
Waking beneath winter
baby’s breath grew like weeds
ripening summer in white ripples of rare sweetness
defended against an age of debauchery
that left only bones and threads of brilliant cotton
to feed the tiny white flowers
breathing toward eternity.
Brenda Warren 2014
Thank you to my poet friend Elizabeth for the inspiration to keep writing, and the words provided on Day 14. She wrote a poem that I spring boarded into this piece. You can find hers here: Down Beneath the Roots of Things.
Porcelain memories
wrapped in burlap,
trapped beneath a moonlit chant,
lie shoveled-over in limbo
and left for dead.
A deeply wet spring germinates
gaudy paper poppies
that briefly turn their translucent
wrists in the wind,
until seasons dry and snap
their heads, and then start
swearing their secrets in seeds.
Porcelain memories
packaged in poppies
bubble to the surface
of everything
they never claimed to be.
Brenda Warren 2014
Visit The Sunday Whirl
Mission on laptop.
Day twelve’s elusive words wait,
captured under cat.
Brenda Warren 2014
Mission is the cat’s name. It’s 9:49 on Day 12, and I’ve run out of inspiration.
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Clotted blood mars silence—
a smudged portent of pain
—a moon centered malady
where cratered eyes
create forced fluctuations
of ocean and womb,
or not as the case may be.
Some things hit like a brick
through a window.
Brenda Warren 2014
Written for Elizabeth’s day 10 prompt.
shake me up like music
make me wanna drum
palm, heel, fingers, thumbs
rotating rhythms,
thrumming and taut,
stretched like a string
over all that is naught
drumming the dirt,
palming my thighs,
palpating tender
under cloudy skies
rattle me
roll me
make me pay a toll
give me back the life we lived
before you chose to blow
shake me up like music,
make me wanna drum
palm, heel, fingers, thumbs
Brenda Warren 2014
The listener is
never on the same page as
everybody else.
Brenda Warren 2014
Written for Elizabeth’s Day 8 prompt.
When distraction carries meaning
like a diamondback’s rattle,
it tautens circadian rhythms
and hurls the tender
toward their own metaphorical
what the hell.
Sharp and venomous bone teeth
taunt your life with plucky listeners.
Where do words go, when nobody says them?
Brenda Warren 2014
Written for Elizabeth’s Day 7 prompt.
Adventures in Poetry and Writing
brenda warren
Reclaiming my inner badass at 50
Just another WordPress.com site
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.....
undercaws 