music is memory
words evoke thought
run through my body
tie me in knots
release me so gently
cleanse me like rain
run by in measures
sweeten my pain
send my blood flowing
flood it with soul
under inside trembling your spell
rise like the sea does
spreading your swell
covers my eyes
sifting through messages
human voices with
pull us under inside
tremble deep your spell
music rise up like the sea
move us with your swell
Brenda Warren 2012
Shout out to dVerse Poet’s Pub for the prompt today. Check it out, along with other explorations of music.
Some teachers keep the entitled kids entitled.
Providing them with privileges,
giving them their time,
they polish their own persona
with the praise of prima donnas,
all the while praying that the unkempt kid who never showers
isn’t coming down the hall to talk to them.
(he just doesn’t try)
(he’ll never learn)
that boy walking down the hall
is not falling through the cracks —
those teachers are pushing him.
Brenda Warren 2012
Shout out to dVerse Poet’s Pub for providing a place to post anything on Tuesdays. You guys rock!
The magician’s assistant strums her lyre
as ghoulish shadows flick like fire
snapping as a whip snaps
stinging as a bee stings
Damnation’s light show
glides beneath the altars
of her stone black soul.
Plucked strings mesmerize
wicked and impure.
Millions of victimized innocents fall
plundered to the Under
as they heed the Dark Soul’s call.
This piece is a response to Brian’s prompt at dVerse – Poetics — Third Eye Open. Thanks for the prompt, Brian, I’m not sure why it plunged me into darkness.
Blister hot highway sheens black
around glossy cracked sheets of rusty patina
sheer against the Blackfoot’s cool spitting foam
where the river salivates, imagining
slippery-limbed cliff jumpers
tickling its low places
as they eddy and weave
through its succulent flow.
Victoria provided an interesting prompt at dVerse Poets Pub. Visit the link for more contributions to the prompt. We were to use texture as a tool in our poems.
Chickens eat more than that hoop girl
twirling her life through yellow.
She best watch her back—
that savior right ‘round the corner
herding sheep like people,
piling them up for a trip in his windowless
wagon where thinking is stuck in the middle of believe.
A shout out to a rather new site dVerse. This is my first post for their Saturday Poetics. Today we were provided information about a painter, Giorgio de Chorico who “fell under the spell of Nietszche.” I wrote the poem as a surrealist response to the painting Mystery and Melancholy of a Street (above), through a somewhat Nietszchean lens. Visit dVerse for more takes on Giorgio de Chorico and his work.