I take back what you have stolen and in your languages I announce I am now nameless.
My true name is a growl.
Margaret Atwood

20 June 2018

what is the grass?

what is the grass? 

a blade or 3 grouping but not yet a quorum,
intones spring in yellow-green hues
until the density pushes
from below, seeking the above, the air -
rent from the rotting flesh of bones,
the skeletal remains of yesterday's decay -
all those days taken too soon
from the sweet blooms bursting
crushed red sunsets in summer's heating waves -
as fall drops her petticoats and bares her legs,
enticing the last of one's dreams before the harsh wind's call -
oh what cruel master is winter -
so what is grass?
the skeletal remains of all that came before,
pushing back ,
seeking air to breathe and wave free
in wildflower crowns and dandelion wings -

*
*

yes, grass is green and tastes of all things,
and if you might venture to step into its spring,
you will feel the pulse quicken -
breathe deeply for it reeks in reels
and listen hard, for the songs, yet to emerge,
not dirges of the haunted souls,
but rather the brawling cries of rallying up
to nest high in a sky waiting with the embrace of a lover -
in whose arms you once knelt,
bellying up to bestow the fire of the cords that joined you two,
if only for a brief burst, seam against seed -
cleaved wide open -
so taste of this - again -
what is the grass, then, if not desire and original sin -


inspired by Karin's prompt @ Real Toads: What the?
and inspired by these lines taken from Whitman's Leaves of Grass

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full
 hands;
 
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
 is any more than he. 
 
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.  
-Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass

19 June 2018

tuesday

most of us won't make it past tuesday, not for the monday mourning of routines
like the heartache of the one-night stand leaking through
the rude awakening, facing stolen kisses in the mirror self
the wastebasket filled with discarded condoms
lost minnows silver-fished from the trap
of a vagina-psyche hungry for some root -
no, most of us just won't make it past tuesday
as time errupts into a slurry of the tiredness of being -
of reaching for the unknowns
peopled by a thousand and one reflections in the dislocated streets
much like kittens are wishes for the cuddling, until some other jarring reality snaps the neck,
and we mew and cry for our souls, already dead -
it will be miraculous if most of us won't make it past tuesday


sharing on Real Toads: The Tuesday Platform

17 June 2018

the colour Teal

I hate the colour teal - it's infusion reminds me ceaselessly of his eyes -
which I can't adequately place anymore -
other than to suggest blue-ish- grey - maybe - certainly not brown.
Not blue.
Not green or hazel.
Not violet - but oh, yes, violent.
For the worldly wonder of fury and hell -
I'd suggest fire and brimstone, but that would be underestimating sulfur -
and it's acrimonious smell - so no, teal - such an ugly colour -
I associate it with his eyes, and that pseudo golf-shirt -
3 buttons at the v-neck, and soft poly-cotton -
and I wish, in some ways, that it had been cheap -
of such poor quality that the poison of agrimony could have leached into him
and worn him thin, faster, sooner -
not only so that he couldn't or wouldn't hurt me, but you either -
but he endured, and now, this damn shirt remains -
barely frayed at the cuffs or stem line along the collar -
and time and hundreds of washings have hardly faded the colour -
deep, rich teal -
so the shirt lives on, and so does he -
but I hear his mind is muddled and his ways confined
to bed or a wheelchair, but still, in moments,
he is as razor sharp as meaty hands beating bruises into skin,
or wielding a belt that buckled a silver tongue - biting into flesh -
and I can't really recall his face -
or the colour of his eyes,
but I loathe Teal -
and for all that was stolen, taken and ripped away -
I only know of his one name: father.


for: Brendan's weekend challenge @ Toads:  Choking  "Approaching on Father's Day"