pop pop boom

retinal overlay
makes the day glow
orange grove brown
down to the alley
dead end rally
of tin can rattles
for every penny matters
of the heart
stuck with darts
parted from hands
dissolving prayers
rubbed into the layers
of skin thin with
interest in stories
not built by bricking
quick thinking
to a stop
here comes the drop
hear the call
up on the wall
written for all
to fall down
go underground
duck those bullets
flying about
all the lying
grinding thought
to a halt
one is lost
another blinded
by the signs
all around us
glowing neon
sounding reason
gypsy genes
ankles bared
afros, knees braced
receding hair glare
details detached
fragmented despair
while I digress
in this mess
I must confess
I scan the lines
to find a plot
all I see is what is not


a lesson on colour

all the lectures
in the world
on light
and waves
and chemicals
and cones
couldn’t teach me
about colour
like painting
at dusk

the good li(f)e

Every time I look at you
I’m reminded of how I pay
for having taken the lifeline you threw me
when I was sinking in the mud
How you pulled me onto the shore
gasping for any kindness
How you saw in me the drive to survive and conjure temples from rubbish
How you tethered me with comforts
and loaded me with purpose
long enough so I wouldn’t perceive
that the shore was on an island
I’d never find the strength nor will enough to leave

But most of all I am reminded
how I long for the mud again


You know I am aware
of more than you can bare
or would ever care to admit

So you try to efface me
or quietly erase me
from desires that won’t fit
your preconceived notions
and stunted emotions
of what is or what ought to be

You stifle expression
and turn to digression
to avoid confronting me

Though my answers are ready
still you won’t ask the questions
liable to set me free


Suddenly ideas beamed towards her. She could see them streaming through the window. Smell. Cookie. Stairs. Lots. Sunshine. Porch. Chicacoos, chicka, chickadoos. Birds. Crumbs. Up. Chair.

She could.

Her mother was talking in the bathroom.

Go downstairs. She did that before. It was hard but she could do it.

No falling. To the kitchen. To the cookies. They were up with the red chair. She could climb. The big part against the sink, like John did. He gave her a cookie too.

She pushed off her blankets and rolled her legs off the bed. This was the hard part. Reach the floor, almost, and let go without falling, without Mom coming.

“Mrs. Gerakis! You know you shouldn’t get up alone. Robbie will be here at 8:30 to help you wash. After breakfast, maybe we’ll sit on the terrace. But no hiding bread in your pockets. Those pigeons are dirty.”

She slumped back on the pillow, legs dangling. Words. “No,” was all she heard. No cookie. No stairs. No chickadees. No John. Not ever again.


 Daily Prompt: Agile


Where wonder reigned
habit remains
and memory’s stained
with melodic refrains
dissolved to static
attractions now
only distractions
unworthy of abstraction
and words just
stochastic noise

Still, I stand poised
against a slow demise
holding out for a surprise

root mother unearthed

Mother of mothers
with generations
nestled in the crooks and folds
of arms, skin,
swinging from gnarled joints
shaping wisdom with your hands smelling of soil
An unbreakable force of time and ages
Etched into your stern face

But I know how that face
longed to smile in wonder
I know why you doted on that doctor
There was nothing licentious in your attention
His knowledge unearthed a cavern where there was room
To hear yourself speak as someone other than that myth
To be proud of something other than the accomplishments of those you bore
To laugh, dance
and shout your name
The one they discarded
when you were grafted to the family tree
To carve their history into your skin


I won’t talk about your lips
or the taste that I miss
I won’t picture your smile
or the miles walked to see it
I won’t mention mistakes
made in the wake
of better judgement
or resentments brewed
stronger than any stewed regrets
I won’t show the sore parts
of my torn heart
or share the spots
of buried thoughts
crushed with duty
as we moved on
I will conjure images
stark and bare
stained in pink
strained past caring
a setting for you
to exhale my name
and for me to redeem
my dignity


you’ve grown tired
and I’m growing old
and we’re both wishing
we’d been less bold
in toying with buds
back when we thought
that spring would bring
enough light
and summer enough heat
to ferment ripened dreams
into distilled desire
that we could harvest and swallow before fall’s call home
but come December
we prefer not to remember
how we failed
tumbling dismembered
only to smother the embers
of our hearts grown cold

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