Standing at attention
like the yogic mountain pose
spine straight, almost defiant.
Front and back cover
holding together
pages pressed firmly,
bound at the seams,
curbing lurking disarray from
free-floating in the wind.

On the outside, solid and steady,
a sliver of statistics
fitting in a curve, drawing in, pushing off.
Eliciting intrigue or a scoff.
On the inside, fever and frenzy,
a spectrum of spirits, a salmagundi of stories,
triggering memories,
storming hearts, drawing tears,
stretching minds, igniting souls.

Are we not all a little bit like a book?
Pining for perusal
coveting connection
craving to be cradled
aching for acceptance.
Each, a volume speaking volumes,
resonating and falling flat,
sacred and banned,
prized and junk,
truth and fiction,
humor and tragedy,
neither but both,
dog-eared and pristine
and everything in between.

Every last one, a limited edition.

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Linking to Magpie Tales for the first time
and to One Shot Wednesday.

i know not peace
from the evening news
bearing tidings ambiguous
denoting a future perilous

i know not peace
by a fallen enemy
slipping out of memory
like a drunken man’s misery

i know not peace
as a status symbol
or a stamp of approval
bought-my-way-in label

I know not peace
as i witness surrender
from a downtrodden warrior
a misstep away from savior

i know not peace
though it must exist
as i’ve glimpsed its passing
in the kindness of a stranger,
in the slumber of a dreamer,
in the shadow of a dancer,
in the devotion of a lover,
in the echo of a singer,
in the smile of another,
in the love of a mother…

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for one shot wednesday

image by Katrina Nicole

Some hurts are not
meant to throb and bleed
in the merciless glare
of the sun.

Instead,
they are harvested –
the choicest plucked from the vine –
for a bit of cathartic crushing.

Wrung of its juice
then stored in barrels
hidden in caves,
left to process, ferment and age,
like a secret
tucked in the deep where
only the winged or the wise can reach.

Many moons pass and even
the reddest, bitterest
blood fades.
What remains,
bottled or spilled,
is intoxicating remembrance.

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for One Shot Wednesday

image by Zest-pk

Lies, at times, have a way of posing like truths

dressed up like a Bergdorf Goodman mannequin
with fiberglass eyes shadowed to perfection
plump pantone lips poised for a pucker or a half-smile

and a silk-spun skirt cinched around an 18-inch waist
hissing echo-less whispers ’round
legs long as Alaska’s summer days

making the girls fall in a trance of fat-free dreams
that suck the flavor out of their thin-soup existence

seducing desirous boys whose already limp judgment
short circuits in thickened waves of fevered temperature.

Even the consummate liar among us falls for the lies
of six-packed bellies that belie birth
deceptive renderings of chimera
faking true that we’re not
worth the time
worth hearing
worth seeing
worth loving
just the way we are;
that we need more, more, more, more, more…
that having
each other
won’t
and
can’t
save
us.

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for #OneShotWednesday

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Mannequin shot by fontplaydotcom

i may have once liked you
for your taste and texture
both seeming so pleasing
just the right temperature

your then savory flavor
overtime has grown stale
herbs and spices familiar
like twelve servings of kale

take your no-sizzle steak
and your sunken souffle
to the table, not able
your half measures dismay

my bland pal, you big bore
i have served your last meal
may i show you the door
adios, it’s been real

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Socially, economically and legislatively speaking, is it ever possible to make the status quo palatable?

For oneshot wednesday

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Pie pic by thebittenword.com

here
breathing
seizing life
blood pulsating
this ephemeral thrill in which I steep

there is no telling how long it will last
this divine dance
brazen beat
thrumming
now

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This piece was inspired by Ruined, a fantastic Pulitzer prize-winning play by Lynn Nottage about the horrific condition of the lives of the women and men in the Democratic Republic of Congo.  I remain hopeful that you & I & the rest of the world can and will do something to improve the now of the Congolese.  Now…

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This is a double tetractys for One Shot Wednesday.  A tetractys is a poetic form consisting of at least 5 lines of 1, 2, 3, 4, 10 syllables (total of 20).  The second verse in a double tetractys has an inverted syllable count of 5 lines of 10, 4, 3, 2, 1 syllables (total of 20).

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Image by bogenfreund

It was a moonless night. The house was so quiet I could almost hear my thoughts echoing in fear. Sweet boy was deep in dreamland and you had to be somewhere far. I, a jumble of nerves, worried about you getting lost, losing control of the vehicle or coming up on a patch of broken highway. Did you eat? Are you staying awake? Did your phone run out of juice? Where is the joy in traversing unfamiliar ground alone on a dark, starless night? But of course, this was only my perspective as I was not with you. And how I dislike it every time we have to be apart! I not only am used to being with you; I actually still love your company after all these years. You later came home, with a hug, a kiss and an intimate chuckle, assuring me you were just fine on that drive. You had music, solitude and the open road, needing nothing more.

silhouettes of hills
undulating to sounds of
strings and beats combined

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This is a haibun for One Shot Wednesday. A haibun is a combination of short prose strong in imagery and at least one haiku. In a haibun, the haiku does not have to relate directly to the prose. It is up to the reader to see the link between the two.

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Image by paul (dex)

~

quick’ning beating heart
flooding back and forth, red blood
rest and sleep must wait.

~

Children are much more transparent with what makes them come alive. Mere moments with my son and you’d know how in love he is with playing, creating and all things ball. He flashes a wide smile, his eyes get big and he chatters incessantly about ramps and tunnels as soon as he opens his eyes first thing in the morning.

Me? I have many interests but I don’t know if any of them are all that transparent. I kind of wish they were. I want to smile big as soon as I wake up when I think about all the fun things I get to do or see or be. But I’m not sure that’s the case with me. I’ve learned to temper, maybe even mask, my excitement.

I get it. We grow up and outgrow our childish ways.  Some may say that’s just life. But as I wonder if it has to be so, my gut tells me no. And oddly, this brand of possibly naive defiance makes me come alive.

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What makes you come alive?
Do the things that make you come alive become transparent within moments of meeting you?
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Itty bitty haiku linking up with One Shot Wednesday and Imperfect Prose.

Image by YoTuT

Your song you sing
without a care
for rhythmic cadence
or pleasing an audience

Your hunger you feed
but haven’t the need
for black truffles
served in fancy crystal

You fashion a home
from twigs and leaves
Still, you soar –
Stay true to your core.

Linking to One Shot Wednesday

Image by wwarby

I claw
Out of a cave
To behold panoramic views from here to heaven.

I dig
Beneath fragile ground
To unearth nuggets more precious than gems.

I listen
Amidst jangly chatter
To hear the ringing of a crystal carillon.

I bend
In thunderous winds
To weather building storms.

I taste
Bitter sadness and regret
To cleanse my palate for bites of bliss.

I slog
Onto shifting sand
To steady my stand on slippery steps.

I question
The mysteries beyond the scope of science
To test my trust and reject blind faith.

I face
My folly, my downfall
To stumble on greatness that lives within me.

I accept
Myself as I am, and you as you are
To glimpse me in you, you in them and them in us.

One Shot Wednesday

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Image by oddsock