20 April 2018

untitled (de la mer, mère, I am of the Mare)

I come from a place, named -
where the Rs are hard
no sweetness in street frontage roses
where the district carried the Lady of Grace
in a cathedral, duplexed for its duplicity
peopled by saints, who were priestly black for their sins
as shrouded by country-cottage polyster lace
curtains in these urban kitchens
as flammable on any day, as any other
as Sunday school sanctimony match-tipped
struck and spit hotter than the French-kissed envious tongues
re-naming of  the acronym "you're   N.o D.amn G.ood"
so what of a name, then -
or a sacred place

I've traveled and curried wood and coins
traded furs for my pelt
war-painted my scars
climbed sledged hills
fallen from escarpments
rocked to sleep under deep mountain midnight stars
baked my brains in a sunflower Prairie oven
swum naked high in its cerulean ocean sky
groped myself wideopen
in strangers-to-me women's covens
in lake and townshipping wine districts
as tadpoles and waterlilies kissed the east morning sun
rocked west to mountain hip drink of fresh water
swaggered and shadow slipped urban
bored myself stupid in slumberous suburban
dropped to dust ingesting country miles wide
in the middle of no.where.now
- so what, of a name, then?
what of a sacred place

tongues twist in the naming-
free-ranging or cluster-fucked spaces
some call home
but I'm my own map
unnameable to you
fetlock kicked
salt licked
sweet scented
wild rose
moon-sea scrubbed free
in\of embryonic ash

©P.A.Kynda Palazy
all rights reserved

for: Real Toads: April 20 - Say the Names of the Places you Love

Sherry hosts and offers us as point of inspiration, a magnificent poem by Al Purdy ~ this is my version of "the naming of names and spaces" - hardly a love story, but for its own blessings, cached.

Roman Gilt bronze horse's hoof and fetlock
public domain image

play outside

play outside
rub red bricks to roughen hands -
later, he'll forget the smashing silence
of a skull, bearing a seagull's weight
of blows in the undertow -
not knowing white chalk outlines outside
are knuckle scraped imprints
of the carriage deadflowing
dried mother's milk
much less divine, how growing baby princess' fists
will reclaim the blood in power

©P.A.Kynda Palazy
all rights reserved

plated 55 for our host Hedge at  Friday 55 at Verse Escape

prose is my piano e forte - so this is prosetry, which fits the bill in its own way ~ a blender family on high speed pulp action