Hope Can Still Bloom Wild

I watched a scattering of clouds brewing brightly over a winter-darkened land. And I thought, Nature is so good at painting balanced music. I also thought of you and me—the gentle and the wild—dancing life’s song together.

 I watched two souls flying as one in a dark sky, unafraid of turbulence or turmoil, knowing that when love stays close the light is never far.

 in winter,

hope can still bloom wild

bits of spring

 

for Poets and Storytellers United (Writer’sPantry #9: Rabbit, Rabbit!)

Flesh, Bones, Soul

I like multiples
of three—
brain, tongue, hand:

mind-love my flesh,

speak to my bones,

caress my soul.

Fresh, ripe, whole…

I’ll give you me,

times three.

Hecate, by ElementalOtherworld

for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #8: We Like Multiples of Three)

When the World Is Dark

I watch her bloodied fist punch and punch the grief-drunk girl in the mirror, while screaming, “Why is my glass always half empty!”

Once upon a more naïve time, I would try to calm her storm, suggest that her glass might find its way to full if she stopped shattering it to pieces every time things got tough. Then she nearly bit my head off, our friendship got stuck between the rocks of my rage and the hardness of her self-hatred, and I felt it proper to lose my know-it-all suit.

I still believe a cooler head might serve her best, but I don’t voice the words. I just watch her and let her see me, hoping actions speak louder than words…

when the world is dark,
I taste the moon on my tongue
and the sun fills me

 

for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #6:Turn Cliché into Poetry or Prose. Take one cliché, two clichés, three clichés, or as many clichés as you like and turn them into poetry or prose).

Under Her Breast

So many hearts fell

for the silver in his tongue,

for a mouth that licked minds

dazed

before sinking teeth into flesh;

every heart

but the one under her breast.

She had tasted

the fakery that oozed

out of the shine in his eyes,

watched him sign contracts

with the blood of shackled sheep,

while sitting on the backs

of the choice-robbed

and the enthralled.

She had wondered

if any of them would ever see

the muck that stuck to his bones,

the worms that rotted the hollows

that should’ve housed a soul;

will they sense the incubus

under the wealth-made halo,

or has he sucked all the marrow

out of their future and wits? 

 

for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers Pantry #6: And the Stars Make Love to the Universe)

Under the Ashes

The two men arrived the same morning the world froze.

She let them into her cabin, but ignored the way their cold bones leaned towards her fire. “Why are you here?” She already knew—the leader of their madness had turned tail, leaving them to feed on old lies and new mountains of snow—but she wanted to make sure that they knew it too.

The younger man tried to hold her gaze and failed. “We’ve no place to go,” he said. “And we’re hungry. I don’t know these lands. And the storm’s… Please, ma’am, you don’t have to help me. But my grandfather, he’s… he’s unwell.”

She watched the old man. They had been neighbors since before the cancer took her grandmother. She had never learned his first name. But the blue chilling his stare was burned into her memory’s eye on the night he paid two kids to set fire to her grandmother’s garden. She could still taste the smoke, hear the screams ripping out of her throat, feel heat biting into the skin of her hands. Anger still twisted in her gut, but she wasn’t a heartless beast. “I don’t have much—”

“What did I tell you?” the old man said to his grandson. “This kind of people—”

She continued talking as if his spew hadn’t envenomed the air. “But I have enough to get us through winter. If we are careful.” 

“Just tell me what to do,” the young man said to her. “I’m strong. I know how to listen.”

Lips pursed, the old man walked to stand by her fire. 

She let him. But when she saw him eying her grandmother’s iron rocking chair—the only thing that had survived the burning of the garden—she said, “No. You sit on the floor. Or you can walk outside to find a spot that suits you. There is plenty of room under the snow, under the ashes.”

 

photo by Craig Tidball - on Unsplash

for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #5: A Tiny Light at the End of the Plastic Tunnel)