my scrawl

Open the fold where my scrawl falls
beneath its shadowed caul
uncontrolled and unopposed.
It covets chaos
stirring currents through my sternum.

It wants to feel your heat.

Brenda Warren 2020



Jesus on 4th Avenue North

Every Friday Jesus walks down 4th Avenue North
carrying plastic bags from IGA.
Sometimes wind spirals his wispy white beard
round the tall staff that measures his stride.

The folds of his long wool coat
move in waves,
like he’s walking on water.
Once in a while, his eyes dance with the sky
and he shouts out,
spilling clouds of syllables
scribbled from his mind.

Brenda Warren 2020


From towering gables to lofty pines
congregated murders capture our collapse,
cawing a cacophony.

Black lustered feathers blink blue
between barren deciduous branches.

They watch us.

And they wait.

Brenda Warren 2020


Fourteen Lines

you misinterpret your existence
sitting amongst your disowned treasures
like the eye of the storm
you never cry without knowing why
you don’t know it’s hard to live
you stop breathing to
keep yourself alive
in this liquid window
that can’t hold anything in
you forget
who you never will be
you misinterpret your existence


This poem came from Fourteen Sad Lines. When I felt blocked, I went to that poem, and reworked it by trying to come up with an opposing piece line by line.


Our love is a nest of twigs
intricately woven
where secrets whisper
in dark spaces and

we giggle

we find each other
in coins on the side of the road



Is this what I’m left with?
This final destination
This pit in my gut
This aching at the base of my skull
Living in limbo
Wondering if the light will ever shine

Waiting for the axe to fall
To chop me into two distinct selves
The one you think I am
And the one who hides in darkness
Waiting for the end of everything
Created by my own necessity
Not knowing how to stop
To stop it from falling
Like an apple from a tree
Rotten to the core
This hidden me
Trying not to rise
It hisses and rattles
Venom and spit
It’s all that’s left
Of empty



How do you shrug off what you can’t remember? Do you just let it dissolve into someone else’s recollection?
As if there’s a memo
Evidence without a frame
Your last word a crime

A dish with out a spoon
A clattering key
A misshapen reality
A distracted song

The little dog sighs
At the cow’s benign lies
As beneath the moon
It moos


knot to dot

this poem is stuck in my
denying its
existence in
knotted threads I
unravel and pull then
sputter and
spit nonsensical
bile scattered
phrases that
refuse to

there are no dots