my eyes open and
darkness forces a haiku
posting for nineteen
Brenda Warren 2013
Process Notes:
Waking from a nap
I realize that day’s end
approaches quickly
😉
Spawning Salmon
My body, my choice.
your seed left me, and your fists
began to find home
in my chest.
Like salmon beating
against a steadfast current,
your violence cycled horror
an inch at a time
When I finally
believed you would kill me,
I left.
I was 17.
The only other people who knew
were the boys in the other room
when you pummeled me.
I screamed for their help
and they listened,
but that’s all they did.
My body, my choice.
Brenda Warren 2013
Wings
for Thyra Louise
Silence sings improbable songs.
Dancing through yesterday’s news
it imprints thunder between my ears.
A bomb propels BBs and nails.
as traumatic amputations,
other places’ normal nightmares,
navigate American soil.
The thunder intensifies
and my heart rate quickens
when I think of you in DC
signing patriotic songs on the steps
of the Lincoln Memorial.
A mantra for your safe return
covers the battlefields, theaters,
museums, and government facilities
that fill your itinerary between feasts
at high profile restaurants.
Be safe.
Have fun.
Come home.
All the while my hands flutter in the air
letting you know I love you,
and love means giving you wings.
Brenda Warren 2013
Dramatic Response to Drama
Just shoot me now.
Before the rest of my life unfolds,
let me lie beneath dirt’s dark ease
tickled by centipedes,
sidled by earthworms,
melting into soil.
Let your bullshit compost my remains,
until something beautiful grows.
Brenda Warren 2013
work haiku
In heated moments
ineffective words hit air
before we eat them.
Brenda Warren 2013
Day 15
Spirit Soup on Sunday
for The Sunday Whirl
Our mighty words unwind
often bold and searching,
saturating spirit,
casting splendor across thresholds of thought.
Gardens bloom beneath our fingers
making skeptical syllables sigh.
Some embellish words to the nines
some place them
slight
(or aside).
Sundays in springtime bring gardens.
Last fall’s election brought swords.
Our words spark and ignite
as we tumble together
smudging our spirits with Sundays.
Pieces tumble onto pages
as the journey takes control and our words
speak from that murky place
where soul resides,
making spirit soup on Sunday
where all these poets whirl.
Brenda Warren 2013
Process Notes:
A little soup for day 14 of NaPoWriMo. This piece is dedicated to all the great poets who write with me each week at The Sunday Whirl. Thank you all for supporting me here and there. You fill me up.
I just posted this and realized that it is my 200th post at undercaws. Caw! Caw!
when chance casts happenstance
Everyone but Jaybird died
the night his family’s plane
crashed into the hill bordering
his grandfather’s cattle ranch.
Jaybird woke in a hospital bed,
and the first two words he heard?
“Bad Luck.”
His mom, his dad,
and all three siblings.
Gone.
Later in rehab, he overheard a nurse say
“This one was born with bad luck.”
Doctors incubated Jaybird his first three weeks of life,
tiny and alone.
Here he was not so tiny,
still alone,
learning to walk again,
as bad luck spread ripples through his thoughts.
Now this story could turn dark,
but it won’t.
60 years later
Jaybird’s family ranch,
run by his daughter,
faces South hill.
50 years back, he changed his luck.
He met a woman who told him
that luck was just chance casting happenstance.
“Perseverance and compassion,”
she said, “that’s all you need,
perseverance and compassion.”
He persevered, they married.
Today he sits on the front porch
looking out at South hill.
His daughter comes up behind him,
slips her arms around his chest,
and says, “I miss mom, Daddy. You
must miss a lot.” She looks up at the
hill. Jaybird reaches up and brushes
his daughter’s cheek, silent.
“Tell me again, why you named me
Dad, that story heals me.”
“Ah, one of my favorites,”
He pats his wife’s chair beside him
as he begins, “Luck Happenstance Smith,”
he pauses to ruffle her hair. “Well Smith
comes from my grandpa, and his before that,”
Jaybird chuckles as Luck settles in by his side.
Brenda Warren 2013
Process Notes:
Miz Quickly prompted us to write about luck. My piece today is loosely based on a true story.
Buds
Buds flesh out spring blessings—
reveries under jars
tentacles climbing glass
casting about stars
melting years eternal
teasing ashes.
Stroke their ancient tentacles,
as their reveries slip into bloom.
Brenda Warren 2013
Process notes:
After reading Quickly’s prompt (click on the hatched 12), I cut two lines from several poems that I’ve written this month and pasted them in the cut up machine at Language is a Virus. This resulted after several revisions (extensive cutting) on my part, but I did not alter the word order of the cut-up. I did add the words “into bloom” to tie it up at the end. Thanks for the prompt Miz Quickly, it made my life easy tonight.
Protected: Day 11
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Hightower Station
Gas – Edward Hopper 1940
Damn gloaming—
every day it
ambers up them weeds
looking like the head o’ hair
Louise sports.
She fills up 2 or 3 times a week
at the precise moment
them weeds
match her hair.
Louise Hightower,
that’s what Harold wants to call her.
Yep, that’s right.
His wife.
But instead he hides behind his gas pumps
watching her come through with every
Tom, Dick, and Harry
this side of Kingdom Come.
Come on, Louise.
Where is she?
Harold fiddles with the pump handle
thinking about Louise’s dark polished nails
wrapping around its girth.
He hates the wait
but relishes every moment
she strokes the handle
filling up her tank.
Brenda Warren 2103
Written to Miz Quickly’s Day 10 prompt: Hopper’s painting.
undercaws 