Tag Archives: Whirl

Falling Angel

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36

You plaster your dreads with the skin of serpents
enmeshing a Medusa, compelling society
to look the other way. A seditious struggle
pierces flesh with iron and ink,
rendering the sacred lost
beneath its pledge.
A stigma.
A falling away.

Wingless limbs falter while
sporadic sparks of truth
flint off your soul’s tufted feathers
and fall like tread from your feet
through this nether world
appled in sin’s black veil.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Process Notes:
“Dreads” are dreadlocks. When I was in Ohio we dreaded my daughter Julie’s hair. People treated her differently. One woman actually pulled her children closer to her in a protective effort as we passed. It was disconcerting. Now I think Jules is an amazing young woman, not a falling angel, but obviously this poem contains a bit of her dreadlocked experience.

Visit The Sunday Whirl for more poems constructed around the wordle words below. I used all of the words except hinder. I had it in there as “hindering the sacred lost” – rendering made more sense.

burnt confession

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15

The prophet in my heart bleeds rusty sermons
while flowers push through cracked cement
tickling my soul’s long walk, softening it,
until sun’s filtered light exposes
scores of melted scars
feeding on my tender flesh.

Before morning, I exist as I am.
Torment crawls under darkness,
my life swept aside. Sometimes
when the moon is new, I hum.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Process Notes:
In burnt confession, I took on the persona of someone with visible burn scars. For inspiration, I imagined the main character of the young adult book, Firegirl, grown-up. For further inspiration, I used the wordle words from The Sunday Whirl. Visit the whirl for more pieces using the word’s in the wordle below:

remember to weed

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18

Potential rattles against a holy
fortress stagnant in its sameness.

A substrata of fear
jangles nay saying
voices in your head,
blurring visions of tomorrows,
while potential’s rattle
snakes and shakes
until its sprouts pierce
the illusionary surface of existence
splintering color throughout your world
enticing voices to quietly vanish
into the gloaming of everything that came before.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This piece came from a wordle at The Sunday Whirl.  This week’s wordle was built from three Wallace Stevens poems.

seven years in vs. several months without

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14

Jules readies herself for Stevon
as I damn another day’s driving
to pick up Len at Cleveland-Hopkins Airport
where Len will take the wheel, and we’ll
chatter a scattered path to Rochester
discussing house issues,
reprehensible renters,
curtains, paint, and stoves oh my—
Why did we buy this house so far away again?
It whirs hominess, family.
Trees and outbuildings mark its acre,
a summer kitchen,
an Amish shed.
Pears gild that tree, casting spells.
Its price parted clouds.
But mostly,
impulsivity blessed us both.

We will laugh as Pennsylvania blinks by
then land deep into blanketed bliss
at Henrietta’s Red Roof Inn near Rochester,
reality only a stone’s throw away.

*

For Stevon’s arrival in Dayton,
Jules twisted and dyed
vibrancy into a white cotton sundress.
The marvel of newly rendered dreadlocks
that buzz with life, animate her shine.
“Only 12 more hours until he gets on his plane,”
bursts forth from percolating dreams of life
in hippy-strewn Missoula
with her hairy man.
Jules’ smile ripples rings toward
tomorrow and yearning’s completion,
while I sigh and scan the clock
wondering how long her couch will
allow me to sleep before I get up
and drive yet again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I wrote the poem the day before I left for Rochester, to pick TL up from camp. Julie was picking up her boyfriend, Stevon coincidentally on the same day Len flew in, to spend the rest of vacation with us. It was interesting to see her enthusiasm compared to mine. So I explored it here. Julie is moving back to Montana, after being out here for nearly a year.  Her boyfriend is excited, as they are moving to Missoula together.  It’s a new life for them and it’s fun to witness their blossoming together.  After I wrote the poem, I did the wordle and added all of the words to the piece, I like it better with the wordle words. I’ve never done a wordle poem that way before, it seems backwards, but Pamela Sayers did it once, and I always wanted to try it. It was a worthy pursuit.

Please visit The Sunday Whirl for more poet’s use of the wordle words.  The creativity and caliber of writing is impressive.

Watermelon Train Wreck

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23

to my dead friend dave

The emerald seasons, high on themselves,
glisten in shimmering mornings.
Divining life through pantomime
illusions, they rise and fall
greening bones bared during the fallow
void of winter’s faded balcony

where you sit forever locked
in celestial observation
flapping your quirky rhythm
in wind that jostles my car
on highway 87 near Moccasin’s
ominous edges.

~~~~~~~
The first stanza of this poem came, and then it changed into a poem to my friend David Arnott. After being hit by a truck on highway 87 near Moccasin, Montana, last November he lingered in a coma a few weeks before dying.  The title will remain obscure.  Dave and I always joked that our daughters were twins with different parents. They were born a month a part, and look like sisters. My poem, The Dead Woman and The Mad Hatter at Beyond the Bozone is the first piece I wrote for Dave.

Please visit The Sunday Whirl and check out some other poems written with these wordle words.  You’ll be glad you did.

honeyed hives

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20

Quick,
before instinct gallops away
chase that whim through honeyed fields.
Resist logic.
Listen to buzzing undercurrents and
fluttering hearts .
Pollinate twisted papyrus hives
into colorful enzymatic etchings
where hibernating thoughts
cosset dreams and percolate
a viscous amber river
thrust into the world
through honeybees’ bellies
into this bumbling sticky poem.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Admittedly an odd piece, it is where the words took me. Being on the start of a family vacation, I played with it a bit in the car yesterday, and do not know where else to go with it. I read something about hornets recently. They make their papery hives by ingesting bark from area trees and puking it up. In areas with multicolored trees, they surpass magnificence. Honey also runs through a bee’s digestive system. They add enzymes to it to make it more viscous….apparently it starts out watery. Interesting stuff…I wanted to work it into this piece, and this piece resulted.

Please visit The Sunday Whirl for more pieces that incorporate the twelve words in the following wordle.

The Siren’s Harp

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21

The Siren’s taloned toes grasp a driftwood limb
wedged among jagged rocks that loomed
like headstones tossed in the shallow hell
of Purgatory Point. Through his scope
Josiah witnesses her crimson hair tumble
a dazzling mask around her nakedness.
Dissipating clouds waft flecks through tangled
tendrils as she preens fresh salt from her wings.

Josiah casts angels to the wind as his heart
hurtles toward sparkling droplets of the Pacific
that nest on the Siren’s clear plumed skin.
Everything his world holds sacred wanes
as she feathers songs on her whalebone harp.
It’s flossy sinew strings strum mesmerizing
melodies that urge Josiah to turn his ship’s wheel
into the fading light of his last breathing day.

Reaching the Siren’s illusion, splintering
explodes, wood flies and Josiah draws his sword
to slice through sinew. Savoring the crew
of Josiah’s Good Fortune, thousands of piranhas
eat flesh to bone. The Siren keens a haunting dirge,
while she restrings her whalebone harp.

Brenda Warren 2011
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Visit one of my other blogs, The Sunday Whirl for more poems with this week’s wordle words. Construct a piece yourself, and post a link to it there so our community can celebrate your results.

pepper me with grace

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20

pepper me with grace
let me peer beyond shapes of surface haze
where senses unfasten perception
flitting light kisses
through spirit’s copper sands
inhaling myrrh
exhaling sandalwood
in this silent
façade of cerulean shade
pepper me with grace

This is a piece using the wordle from The Sunday Whirl. Follow the link to check out other poets’ responses to the prompt.

Aurora Borealis

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19

Sparks of stardust etch stories
across gossamer bones of sky.
Glistening slits of templed tales
click like sticks unfold
tangling into serpents
threads of light
intertwining ancient ideas
casting them to writhe for us
upon the skies of now.

null

Several words in my poem are from this week’s wordle at The Sunday Whirl.  Visit the whirl to read more poems that integrate the same words.

tattoo

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14

nullInspiring transcendence,
a lotus blooms in monkey’s hand
as it dances alluring stories
on the sloping curve of my back.

A strange kinship radiates bold wishes
between us, and we sleep
until devious monkey
wakes and stomps out
its joyful song through my torso’s
enchanting labyrinth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This piece is from the wordle found at The Sunday Whirl, where poets create pieces with a dozen specific words and post glorious results.