A Winding Course

Composed 9/5/17
Description: Inspired by today’s Daily Prompt: Elevate.

Fantasies formed in the mind and acted out viscerally
None that have seen the light of day nor should they
They are silly, preposterous
A sad routine of imagined cliches
There’s no stock to this
Instead reasons to cease and desist
Perhaps why I’ve yearned to quiet my brain
Command it to quit
I detest this sickness, loneliness
How it steals my senses away and
Wastes my time in argument
With my own self when it’s already won —
Logic against hopeful desire
That will eventually be stomped out like flame
I wish I could elevate myself
Above these feelings
Turn off my humanity like a switch
And focus on higher things or at least
Possible things
Because I’m tired of the uphill battles
And I don’t deserve them
I’m worth the pursuit or at least
Expressed, mutual affection
I’m just inpatient with this lazy
Meandering direction
This sorry excuse of a lovers lane

Reaper

Composed 4/23/16
Description: Trying to keep up with NaPoWriMo! Here’s one for Day 21. Inspired by this picture.

a woman in walking in the rain down a street
by BaxiaArt

She walked between the raindrops
A whisper in the night
She hummed along with cricket songs
And danced between the lights
Of fireflies and alleyways
Footprints splashed without a sound
She hovered between each universe
A hologram you could not pin down
Despite the dark that hung on her
Her smile brought a light
And it was just when it brightened that
She’d take a human life

Fire Eater

red_2_by_tosha_chan-d9iow63
Red 2 by Tosha-chan.

 

Composed 1/1/16
Description: Prompt from writeworld. Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture.

His fingers spread like growing vines
And touched her skin so pale and sweet
He felt the blood pump through her veins
Gentle thuds in steady beats

From each seam, each pore heat wafted off
An aura of delectability
It swam up each thin, arching stem
A fire forming internally

It crawled up his arms
Hung in his chest
A strangely lovely burning wheeze
He breathed hot smoke
His insides glowed
Shade hung from a grin, sharp and pleased

She fell limp and her skin felt cold
Silence within her too-still form
The spines retreated as a breath was taken
And the red hot man went strolling home

Origin Story

Composed 12/22/15
Description: My dream last night.

A skinny tree
His branches stick out like a mushroom hairdo
He stands in line
Orders a coffee
Vanilla latte with my vanilla beans
He shakes his hair and they rain down
Falling seeds
The kiosk owner hesitates
Shakes her head in ignorance
But I pop up with some how-to knowledge
And a potion book

It takes an hour or so
To gather needed supplies
I explore the lush green valleys
And with pestle and pot
The tree’s latte arrives

Unknown, am I
Until that moment
Impressed, my fellow magic folk

Word spreads throughout the inn
My prestige grows as
Power is gained
As discover, I, my place here
A wild white wolf
Is suddenly tamed

A friend, a familiar
Bonds with me
Witch, potion maker

Guardians

Composed 7/10/15
Description: Written in the dark hours of the morning.

One cat slept at the door
The other at her feet
How sweet she thought
Their gesture
Loyalty unending
What she didn’t see
When she closed her eyes
And drifted off to sleep
Was the warning glare
In their green orb stare
At the smoke man who appeared
And fled
No words more

The Siren

Composed 4/23/15
Description: Something a little different. A short tale.

He gave his heart up freely
To any stranger with a smile
His shirt, his watch, his well-worn hands
Were theirs after awhile

A phony chance encounter
Led him into harpy claws
He could never see the ugly
Only hear a beauty’s song

But this knight in shining armor
Had a princess at his side
Who saw through the illusion
With a stare like sharpened knives

Brandished sword then skewered
Screeching siren through the throat
The song that once had lured
Broke with last unholy note

Sorrowful, indeed, but the knight would love again
His nature, sweet and flowing, still yet vulnerable to sin

But a friend he’d always have
A royal, watchful eye
Protector, friend, comforter
For both each one would die

Old Gnarled Monster

Composed 4/3/14
Description: (Day 3 of NaPoWriMo) For the tree on Chestnut St.

Old gnarled monster
Your ancient horns twist and tower
Into the graying sky
Branching, expanding into spiral crowns
Long barren evidence of your
Mighty strength

Old gnarled monster
I see your face
Two round notches in a
Wrinkly brown skin
Staring out over a land
Once conquered

Old gnarled monster
I see your heart
A dark fraying crater
On a russet
Dragon scaled chest
That’s seen no smoothing touch

Old gnarled monster
Your notched angled arms
And long winding fingers
Dusted with thriving moss like snow
Reach out up and above my head
Ever stretching

Do you wish to strangle
Your captors?
Or do you simply crave
To touch your own kind
The comfort taken from you
By the roadways of man?

Consequences

Composed 9/10/13
Description: Inspired by a similar event that happened today.

Light was just beginning to fade as they walked across the parking lot. The air was cloaked in a buttercup yellow, and dusty shadows from trees and cars spilled across the blacktop like prowling malicious spirits. The only sounds were the clopping and smacking of their shoes against the dry ground. Only with much focus could one pick up the distant cries of racing metal machines and the eerie lullaby of leaves.

He inhaled, and the air was like wood.

“Smells like someone’s burning something.”

His companion breathed. Her eyes paled; once an ocean, her irises melted into ice. She stared off into the distance, past the cars and the trees and the parking lot. Past the grass. Past the horizon.

He knew that look. She was Seeing something.

Her irises filled with ocean blue. Her pupils refocused on the ashen ground.

“What’s up?”

She looked across the parking lot and pointed.

“There. In the median. In the mulch between the trees.”

He followed her finger and noticed a trickle of smoke leaking from the ground. They walked over to the place where the wisp originated, just as she said, in a median filled with mulch and a few trees. A cigarette butt lay in the center of a ring of dried up woodchips; around its edges, the ring smoked. A tiny red spark brightened and dimmed at one point of the circle.

“Put it out,” she whispered.

He took his water bottle out of a pocket of his backpack and let the water flow over the ring. He spread the mulch with his shoe and stomped on it once he was done to make sure all the coals were out. The smoke halted.

His companion exhaled heavily, as if she had been holding her breath. He jumped back onto the blacktop and stared at her. Her eyes remained on the upturned earth.

“What was that about?” He asked. She nodded at the now damp mulch.

“That would have set the whole campus on fire.”

He looked back to the place. It was just a bit of mulch now, not at all remarkable. Even the cigarette butt was buried. He glanced up, then, to the buildings around him – grand, brick structures with tall, arched windows. A concrete fountain bubbled yards away.

“Really?” He looked back to the mulch. “But putting that out seemed so… insignificant.”

She nodded. “It always seems that way. But little, seemingly insignificant things change the world. A cigarette. A bullet. A kiss. They determine the course lives take. Or how they end.”

With one last look she turned and walked toward the place they had been heading before. His brow furrowed, but he stuck his hands in his pockets and followed.

The Price of Power

Composed 5/25/13
Description: This poem came from a very strange place. After I came home from lunch this afternoon I got enwrapped in the last part of that show where they fix/cover up really terrible tattoos. This got me thinking about tattoos, and suddenly I had this idea. What if certain tattoos could give you magical abilities? The tattoos would be very intricate, and, I imagined, the ink used would not be typical tattoo ink, but magical ink that was, indeed, very painful once injected into the skin. Therefore, only the strongest individuals would be able to tolerate it and therefore be blessed with these powers. I even have the main character of this poem/universe created. I can picture her perfectly — she’s apart of a tribe with dark skin and pitch black, short, crazy curly hair… And totally badass. Haha, anyway. Hope you enjoy! More stuff may be stemming from this idea…

The ink in her skin
You can’t imagine the pain
It left her screaming
Mad, deranged
Each color a poison
Every stroke a slice
The reward would be great
But was it worth the price?
Her resolve was strong
Sixteen hours she whimpered
And when she had stopped
Fire shot from her fingers