grittled syllables

Cat bites my tongue
holding onto words
like gravity keeping my feet on earth
invisible but effective,
relishing silence on this dreary gray day.

As cat’s tail flicks,
a garbled refrain of grittled syllables rises
from cracks in the swell of my purloined tongue
(something about eating canaries
as antithetical to humility).

Perseverating on yellow,
chains disappear like teeth.

Cat lays claim to feathers
triggered by a spray of syllables
whose sarcasm blooms,

freeing my tongue to bleed the story
down this empty white page.

Brenda Warren 2012

Process Notes: We are having a dreary gray weekend, and nothing worth posting came for me yesterday. This morning, when I made writer’s block my topic, this piece came. Initially, “whose sarcasm blooms” was “whose planted sarcasm blooms,” but alas, I like it better without planted…. Plant is the only word I don’t use in this piece.

Visit The Sunday Whirl to read more pieces using the 13 words in the wordle below.


The Circus With the Yellow Clown, 1967, Marc Chagall

Voices dance blue circles around his head
whispering their lemony secrets
beneath his clown-capped curls.

flowers and chickens
and handcuffs and fish
a man with his arms raised
his hands tight in fists

An audience of bobbing heads
applauds the shenanigans
and yellow begins to drip from his curls
down his nose, cross his brow
and into his normally so blue eyes
now swirling in voices round his head
and dripping cerulean
between the yellow lines of gingham
ruffling his clown suit collar.

He hates it when this happens.

Brenda Warren 2012

For The Mag.

The Alchemist Masseuse

She sprinkled his acid remarks with nectar,
then used his moans to gauge the supple acumen of her craft.

She soothed him.

Advancing alchemical reactions,
her oiled hands heated his shoulders
until juices from his acid tongue
dripped holes into the yellow linoleum
below the healing table.

It quieted his tongue.

Ameliorating pain
her fingers manipulated knots—
vibrating and tenderizing acid into
sugar’s sweet joy.

Holy smoke spiraled yellow
dissipating as it swept his body’s length ,
while the alchemist masseuse
impeded his pain, humming as she
pulverized knots and acid thoughts,

then sent him into the world,
where without thinking,
he tipped his hat to a passing stranger
while humming the lines of her hands.

Brenda Warren 2012

These words kept twirling into darkness, until I set them in the hands of a masseuse. To see where other people took the words, visit The Sunday Whirl. You’ll be glad that you did.

The Cleaning

When human beings are wiped from the face of the earth,
perhaps the eloquence of bees will buzz a balance
back into time’s swiveled fabric.
Slowly pesticides will dissipate and
buildings will crumble into cinder gray coral
that rises in pillars like fingers
ringed by soft hairy pillows of emerald moss.
The bees will dance from color to color
hovering as motionless yellow black points
to replenish the strength of their bumbling numbers,
basking in the glory of a rapidly blooming fresh new world.

Oh honey! Oh golden viscosity!
Let mama bear find you and feed her furry family
as they rumble through the safety of human remains.

Brenda Warren 2011

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