When the dark winds come trees whip wildly with possessed arms.
Leaves fly and swirl just as bones and gizzards swirl in ebony caldrons.
The wind howls like a banshee in the night.
The dark people come.
They come infiltrating, flitting as shadows around innocent men.
They come for souls.
Darker than dark they feed on the night vices of the innocent.
With shiny, black-marble eyes, they wait.
They wait to spread ichor across the earth…
one soul at a time.
Little copper penny laying on the ground.
I see you, all dull and brown.
You have lost your shiny sheen.
I wonder how many people have passed you by.
Underestimating your value.
Underestimating your worth.
One of you may not seem like much,
But added up, you can be very much.
You could be the three in thirty three, or the nine in eighty nine.
I see you there, all dull and brown.
You have definitely lost your sheen.
In my pocket you always go!
My momma taught me well,
Never pass up free dough.
See a penny, pick it up!
All the day you’ll have good luck!
Napowrimo day 11 : origin poem
I came from a place of wailing
And crying behind ones’ eyes.
A place of violence for the littlest of a child’s innocent sins.
A place of broken treasures left in shards upon the floor.
A place of ridicule and shattered dreams.
A place of kindness nullified.
I came from a place where surprise and magic never lived.
Where skin puffed from welts and imagined infractions.
Where survival meant being perfect and even that wasn’t enough.
Where things were given and in the next breath taken away, by a most skilled Indian giver.
I came from a place where privacy was very null and void.
Letters, words and notes from friends…no thought was ever safe.
A place where only the birthdays of others are remembered .
A place where Christmas did not mean gifts.
Sitting and watching others open gifts on birthdays and Christmas.
Trying hard to keep back tears and imagine that inexperienced joy.
I came from a place where I had no self.
Where I was only an extension of you.
It almost worked.
It almost did.
I came from a place where my eyes opened to the treatment of others.
They weren’t like me.
They were wanted and loved.
I COME from a tiny girl who vowed to find love one day.
Who nourished her own free spirit.
Who eventually found her way.
Away from the evil she grew up with.
Away from the people who tried to steal her spirit and her life.
Today I have my own origin.
I found the things I love and filled my life with them.
I live for experiences.
I live for the moment.
I live in the joy of simple things.
I am in the sky.
I am in the sun.
I am in the moon with blue cheese shining bright.
I am the blue notes of jazz and the high, white notes of Bach.
I am in tea and I float high in pink champagne bubbles.
Today I am from my own origin.
Today I do what I want.
Raining Cats and DogsNapowrimo 10
The sun hides behind clouds.
Brightness suddenly grows dim.
Cool air moves quickly in.
Suddenly, there is a drip drop.
Drip drop turns into ta-ta-tickety tock.
Newspapers raise, shielding hair.
Walkers mentality kick themselves.
They forgot umbrellas.
Street people shuffle to find shelter.
Ta-ta-tickety tock turns to white noise.
A constant rush of water falls from the sky.
Water pools and puddles form.
Small furry things splash down around me.
Chihuahuas, poodles, corgis and papillons!
Calicos, Manx, hairless and Siamese!
It’s raining cats and dogs!
Sei Shonagon list: napowrimo 9
An elderly woman reads the entire menu with her outside voice trying to decide what to order.
Seeing sad in the jazz, that is the music of my soul.
A woman tries to talk with her coworker which results in unresponsiveness snd awkward silences.
Pouring out love on the undeserving.
A weird flutter of my heart seeing you after thirty years.
Waking up from a dream and thinking I’m still dreaming.
Wondering if life is just packed boxes filled with bubble wrap and memories.
Did they all die when the plane crashed and was anything that happened on the island real? #LOST
Knowing that people who are supposed to love you,really don’t.
Where in the world is Carmen San Diego?
Silently living the life as a motherless child.
My untethered eating raw rabbit while I eat lobster.
The sadness of children who have clipped wings.
The word ‘mother’ doesn’t make someone a good one.
Teaching my child about racism to ensure her safety in this dark world.
Loss is something the innocent keenly carry.
Love comes into our life and sometimes has to leave.
Circling the Drain #napowrimo 8
The sun rises. The sun sets.
In between the usual happens.
The alarm startles us at five.
Time to do the shower shuck and jive.
Assorted wheels whirl us toward our mundane jobs.
Buses, subways, bikes and cars;
The wheels of all go round and round.
For eight hours we sit in a carpeted square box working for the man. He wants us to think outside the box, as worker drones buzzing around the corporate hive.
Five comes and we’re homeward bound.
Home to family. Home to old pizza.
Home to our friends, our cell phones.
We repeat this daily grind day after day.
Month after month.
Year after year.
We go this until a disruption of the flow.
Violence takes our safety.
Illness takes our wellness.
Death takes our lives.
As we lay cold and silent,
Soon to be under the shroud of white,
The doctor calls it.
The time is 9:15.
We have been circling the drain of death all this time.
Joy is in the breeze.
Gentle, wispy fingers touched by brine caress my cheeks as they pass by on their way to others who have journeyed through asphalt and sand to sit at the edge of the sea.
Joy is in the wave.
Waves lap at my toes. Watery tendrils lap at the sand pulling and pushing golden kernels of soon to be sea glass with the regularity of the moon. Gentle tingling can turn into the crashing of white noise as the sea transforms from calm to wild.
Joy is in the sun.
When the earth winters and the sun is far, a few hot beams of light are sun-sent, like beckons in the icy dark. These rays of illumination light up a face chilled by frigid air.
Joy is in the berry.
Red, Shiraz, Merlot or Rose.
Cava, Brut or the finest champagnes! The intoxicating blend of sweet, dark berries and bubbles fill my glass with an instant celebration.
Joy is in the sweetness.
Cocoa beans and hazelnuts are the guilty sin of the soul. Rich, brown chocolate warms the tongue as it melts to a liquid finish. Bumps of hazelnuts burst in nutty goodness against sharp and happy molars.
Joy is in the music.
The cacophonous din of data swamp the mind with daily cobwebs. The blue notes of jazz and white chords of Bach cleanse the soul. Music soothes the bewildered me.
Joy is in the touch.
Firm fingers trace circles on flesh tight with tension. Oiled hands knead bread on shoulders knotted with hot cross buns. Knuckles meander down spines tightly coiled with springs. Relax. Release. Breathe. Skin and muscle yield to gentle hands.
Napowrimo Day 7 : joy poem. Finally time to post it!