Frenetic yet precise,
snare me.
Mimic the beat
of my soul’s underside
thrumming to the rhythm of spice
and Top tobacco.
Bells and screams
whistle their way through audience appeal
as hips sway circles
far removed from earth’s dirt floor.
Move me,
pull me below the rhythm of your sin.
Swirl me up in chocolate
reflected in chrome.
Your shining beats undo me
they get beneath my skin
pull me deep inside the rhythm of your sin.

Brenda Warren 2013

Miz Quickly asked that we respond to the following video.

sister wind whistles and spins

A fulcrum of momentum,
she wraps her wings across her breast
until she spins out brave new worlds
where long necked geese rise through ruddy sunshine.
Thrumming a rustle of feathers on air,
they become a subliminal one with wind,
riding on her smug untidy currents.

Urging migration, sister wind eradicates
the gullibility of yesterday’s unmoving mellow air,
twisting the shallows of the lake
into crystallized shudders.
A rush of ice forms and forces this wild congregation
to hoist their voices, unfold their wings, and sweep circles
over the freezing wet cycle of time.

Sister wind whistles and spins
as silver and black flutter and flash
imprinting seasonal patterns,
migratory gyrations that weave feathers
through the shimmering spokes of her spirit’s fierce wheel.

Brenda Warren 2011

Process Notes:
After spending some time watching Canadian geese rise and fall across the expanse of Benton Lake National Wildlife Refuge, I wrote down twelve words for The Sunday Whirl. Check the Whirl every Sunday for a new wordle.

This morning, I morphed the words into this piece, which at first would not come. Once wind developed into “sister wind,” the piece flowed freely.

Sister wind whistles and spins for the geese. May they journey for many centuries across the prairie potholes that dot their North American migratory routes. May water fill these potholes each spring. May they flourish and flash with sister wind, reminding us of our relationship with the earth.

bike ride at dusk

a pervasive humming
in the shallow hollows
of my body’s geography
tickling like wingtips
vulgar and insistent
it prowls about
the edges of my dwelling
dropping claws
like shale thrumming
ridges through my
spirit’s soft song
it preens out parasites
as light seeps out my back
illuminating the falling
black feathers
that follow me home

Happy Birthday to One Shot Wednesday, and thank you for the place to post.