endless thread

Spirit is
in waiting,
striving toward the other side of
that coming moment.
You eat air that does not yet exist,
a backward vomit of sorts,
stirring up the acids stress magically infuses
into knots that eat your stomach
right before you meet him to tell him

Spirit tramples his face.
You pull your eyes
away from his grief
to regenerate resolve,
then move in
then move out
of a hollow yearning hug.

Refusing to look back,
you walk into your spirit’s remains,
as the frayed knotted mesh
that connected you together
irrevocably changing
everything tomorrow holds,
leaving a red thread
between you—

a tenuous but endless connection.

Brenda Warren 2012

NaPoWriMo 19
Process notes:
My daughter broke up with her boyfriend this evening. I knew it was happening, and wrote this to work through it myself. LoL She handled it with maturity. Her grace and poise in difficult situations astound me.

This was intended to be a response to the We Write Poems prompt to “define what spirit means.”  My endless thread took its own route.

“An invisible red thread connects those destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. The thread may stretch or tangle, but never break.”  – Chinese Proverb

Banana Split

for len

circle my lost spirit
church me up with concrete
make me stable
make me strong

I remember how it felt
to be cobbled by passion

crumbling pieces
a myriad of me
dissipate and wait
for a sign
for a passage to adventure
anything but now
circling my lost soul spirit
floundering alone
church me up with concrete
make me stable
make me strong

take me out for hot dogs and holy wafers
let the preacher’s words tell you everything that I can’t say
fearful of my non-reflected face
I cringe beneath dismissal
and hope you know
I love you

in the middle of this shit
you’re the mustard to my hotdog
the banana to my split
Brenda Warren 2011
Process Notes:
Hoping for a positive piece with the whirl words, I wound up here. Len and I exchanged heated words earlier in the week, and then a conflicted work schedule kept us away from one another. The angst of words left hanging drove this piece.  I’m certain the last two lines are not original, but then is anything, really?

Visit The Sunday Whirl, for some great reads using the twelve words that shaped my piece this week.