Terra-motives

Scaly breasts shudder with a gutter-gray cleaving.

She misses her breezy paramour's calming touch,
and their nostalgic days vent in pitched-white whispers.

If I could breathe back those mists, I might lessen her sorrow ...

Too-rigid muscles slide into aqua spasms.

She fidgets at the lack of fuss her fragments show,
and the brittle hours snap with metallic-blue cracks.

If I could massage those bursts, I might slacken her worry ...

A caustic blood simmers in vermilion bubbles.

She's whiling ways for the weak-spotted to crumble,
and languished minutes dissolve with yolk-yellow pops.

If I could stomach those boils, I might keep her from breaking.

---

The Day 17 NaPoWriMo prompt from ReadWritePoem is called something elemental. I chose to write about earth, but I included some aspects of water, wind and fire as well.

False Prophets

Sugar-rich tongues preach
The necessary failures
of poor substitutes

Canvas and Rubber

Two loose yellow tongues flap me back
to that cul-de-sac of leather
balls bounced on a tarry hot blacktop.

The sweat came fast, our slapping palms
got slippery. We couldn't waste time
on excuses or fouls, just elbows

strategically placed, saggy smiles
and my canvas Chuck T's tearing
away from worn-down rubber soles.

---

The Day 16 NaPoWriMo prompt from ReadWritePoem is called What's that smell? Through it we'll take an olfactory-based stroll down memory lane.

Scraps

An idol's eyes strain
to find blood-stained scraps, inform
the worshipful wise

White Lies

Ill my white lies lay
along black-truth's way,
attracting the stranded
eyes of idle watchers.

Dropped so indifferent
in hands that lead up
to one man's simp'ring god,
our antique worlds meet

and shake. His wired head
sits uncomfortably
near us, and spits words
by life left unspoken.

They feed the moon full
with dwindling day, to flesh
out love and make our steps
half-brothers, again.

---

It's Day 15 of NaPoWriMo, and the challenge is halfway to completion. Today's prompt from ReadWritePoem is called carrying a tune, that is to write a poem that's musical. I tried to give a sing-song feel to this piece. It's a type of "found poem" as I created it from a list of the most frequent words used in my poetry.

Dibs

His hunger claims big
as proper's portion. Her smile
cedes him its poison.

There and Here (a cleave poem)

there, come upon a greening once

in ticked and timely woulds

where all footed plantings have danced and swirled,

he takes a speculative girl

they tip-toe tentative steps of belonging

to meet, to part, join fingers and twirl

till they reach an inevitable verge

but with each successive passing

of the will to do and was not true

she grows fainter in his mirrored should and

their shy shadows wobble in recognition that

her hands can only feebly grasp at

what's lost is found, but never bound to

this fading pane of here

---

The Day 14 NaPoWriMo prompt from ReadWritePoem is to write a cleave poem. This is a form created by Dr. Phuoc-Tan Diep, and the goal is to have two halves that can be read both separately and together. It proved both a challenge to write and to format.

Equipment

"Your equipment lacks
the proper balance," she quips
mint leaf between teeth

Poem Starting with a Line from Norman Dubie

The pearl slapdash of the moon is on the water.

It won't linger there long, so drink up and take back
your legs from wavering's pumpkin lip, before they slip
and are lost in a slurp of mucky goodbyes.

The ruby blush of the sun is on your shoulder.

It will fade with a mounting calm, unless you dive in
and cast off the dither of wormy squirm's pout.
Afterward we'll sip, now is the time for devout swims.

---

The Day 13 NaPoWriMo prompt from ReadWritePoem is Smoke a Dubie. The challenge was to use a line from a poem by Norman Dubie to light the fire of inspiration. I used, "The pearl slapdash of the moon is on the water."

Bribe

Slow slipping sand bribes
her, new bride to shallow vibes
only now matters

Messages

The testy toaster wheezes
a tart and frosty thrust,
"You sir can't taste
the sweet-meat of cause
if you won't stomach
its bland and crusty effect."

I'll come back to his riddle.
First, the percolator
keeps bubbling up
drips of bitter conversation
I've warned her nicely
to drop before.

---

The Day 12 NaPoWriMo prompt from ReadWritePoem is secret codes. I find my messages in a cramped kitchen.

Shock

Another earthquake.
Those moments she doesn't tremble
now come as a shock.

Bystander to a Bricking

You were always
a bit of backward
but your small, fuzzy grins
came cheap and easy.

We never guessed
they'd change the rules
so fast.

Salvation might have come
in coupon form,
and dolled-up pretty—
some say better than new—
we could have shared
old games, odd romance,
a few more laughs.

But I let that last chance slip,
and now a brick,
you're going gently onto
the back-alley rubbish
in the middle of the night.

---

On Day 11 of NaPoWriMo, the ReadWritePoem prompt is the thing you didn't choose. It's an apology to the analog TV I never allowed to go digital.

Ripple

Ripple in a brown bag,
his saner days tumble
head-over-heel backward
before the tossed became...
ker-plop

Cracking an Egg

What makes it
that perfect egg,
laying there, simply
narrow-turned nose
to broad-bend
bottom
?

What is it
about
this teardrop of smooth,
its quickening
shell not easily cracked
or taken
to a coating dye —
the slippery
dips in mocking pink,
acid-tongued blue,
and indigestible
pea green
?

I can't begin
to unlock that knowing,
and I'm not going
to swallow it
hardboiled
.

---

We're 10 days in and a third of the way home to the NaPoWriMo finish. Today's ReadWritePoem prompt is to celebrate. My most recent family-based celebration was a lovely Easter brunch at my sister's home. There's a peculiar little ritual we've practiced since we were kids, which involves a competition to see whose egg has the thickest shell. We tap them nose-to-nose and bottom-to-bottom until one emerges uncracked. After a champion is crowned, both losers and winners should be consumed with equal relish, but I've never liked hardboiled eggs. The tradition has been passed on to my nephews, so the cracking will continue at least one more generation.

Succor

Keep the flame level,
or it will singe. I'll take care
to stitch it tightly.

Sour milk

Merry is the marionette,
almost a miniature man, who finds
his wires new-severed do flap
where once strum-tight they dictated
the when to fall octopus-limp
or to dance a sprightly jig
accompanied by silly jug tunes
he never even liked.

Stringlessness comes at a price.
On disjointed steps, Merry
would he have to make his own way
as an unprovided walker.
He sets out, philosophical
tomes in hand, for the wooded
fringes where a brook gurgles
and he'll grapple with consequence.

"I have a goodly appetite,"
Merry remarks. "I'll attack
these meaty words with fork and knife."
But the ideas do stew
and uncomfortably stowed
between Being and Nothingness,
Merry wonders whether freedom is
not what he bargained for.

Just then he's startled by the tug
of wires gone taut, and caught up
by the dangle of an enormous
eagle, its talons eagerly
trying to untangle the strings
of a new play thing. Merry
might have wept, but who could cry
over the spilling of sour milk?

---

It's day 9 of NaPoWriMo and things are getting a little complicated. The ReadWritePoem prompt is a mission with a few tricky steps. Click the link to see the list of ingredients that went into this confection.

Stigmatic

I've a sui-generis tendency to ape
that sainted cat from Assisi who lends me
this moniker with mouth-confounding interests.

I cop ascetically tasteless means for living
and an auto-inflicting knack, but we part
weepy ways at the nobler wherefore of his arts.

He self-stigmatized for Faith, I stab at lesser
Love's tortured metaphors, and my plump palms bare
only the throb of a heart foolish for one once gripped.

Move on I must, wholly hand-in-hand with hag Hope
to cajole a jab by bumptious Charity,
touch of her tip flushing blues from my fleshy side.

---

It's day 8 of NaPoWriMo and love is on the agenda again. The ReadWritePoem prompt is unusual love connections. I started with a tortured metaphor, and then it got away from me.

Miserable Lark

Miserable lark,
mate-less trills dirges, then wings
off without a whim

He pleads

He pleads wicked wants
the willing locked in strong box
Love's a deaf-mute lass
She bites his shilling and mocks
glassy stares of disint'rest

---

Week one of NaPoWriMo concludes, as ReadWritePoem suggests love, funny side up. The task was to write a tanka on an amusing encounter. My personal experiences with romance don't lend themselves well to humor or poetry, so I went with a made-up bit of the twisted.

Gritty

Misbegotten sprite
soured on woodlands, thumbs a ride
for cold and gritty

Three lay stranded

These three lay stranded, spit back
black by a whipped and layered sea.
How now, if ever he was vengeful,
Jonah must joyless chuckle to see it

These three who lay stranded with toys,
littering the sand -- their phalli anchored,
oars stilled, and portholes spilling out
a last salty gasp to grasp it

These three who lay stranded, chasing
seamen with a frantic gaze, to fetch help
or seek simple solace from the monstrous
riddles staining their glassy eyes

These three who lay stranded, smitten
again by land long-ago left to reverse
evolution's tide. God can't undo
their nifty trick swift enough to save

These three who lay stranded and wait,
lonely for their brothers still headed to shore.

---

It's Day 6 of NaPoWriMo, and I'm still churning out the words. The ReadWritePoem.org prompt for today is to converse with images. I found the image above while looking up some information for another poem. It's a 1577 engraving entitled "Three Beached Whales" by the Dutch artist Jan Wierix.

Acedia

As each noonday nears,
bedeviling with its heat and hunger,
Acedia sweetly abides to offer
the coolness of her shadow.

Filbert T. Gibbet

Your name is Filbert.
I'd rather use you as Fill.
Fill, gods may have put you here
for a victimless chatter,
but I'll bring you up
with the nonsense charge to meet
false expectations. I know
we don't see heart-to-heart, that
parting shouldn't stop us
from connecting the pesky
dots of our pupils. Let's learn
to be adult about this
uncontrolled glowing.
Your flighted fancies
can't leave the tarmac
without making one feel bold,
another frightened,
and everyone is a skosh
confused in the end.
I hope it doesn't bound
too negative. I meant well.

---

Day 5 of NaPoWriMo dawns, and I'm still up to the challenge. The ReadWritePoem.org prompt for today is to make your poetry personal. If I understood it correctly, that meant personifying my poetry.

Stormy Strum

Pointer and thumb stormily strum
backing his flammeous warble.
Terrified toes, fleshed thick and slow,
commence an arrhythmic flouncing.

A Man, All Four Seasons

His spring was short, and he wore it
damp and dreary with query bulbs lightly
weaved in a soiled waistcoat. He will be
ready for summer.

His summer comes modest, not hot
enough for milking. Answers flower few,
so he dons a leaf-cushioned jacket
and waits for the fall.

His fall arrives late, too sweetly
burning assents of decay. Cracks branch thin,
and he slaps on a sappy topcoat,
with dread of winter.

His winter bustles with a bite,
but its nibbles and noms are blessedly
brief. He sighs, "It's a shame my seasons
can only be four."

---

This is Day 4 of NaPoWriMo. The ReadWritePoem.org prompt for today is to write an inside-out poem, taking the out-of-doors and bringing it in.

Dapper

A dapper yellow man, he dances by
too careless with his caresses.

Tickled fields of flowering fancies
nip at rosy heels. Skipping west,

he doesn't notice.

Rainbow Abduction

There's a temperamental rainbow
he's seen, peeking out now and again, when
not shyly hid in cumulus cubbies.

He might, he can, win a sparkly trust,
luring it to him, between rainy bouts,
with promises of mood-altering

medication. Then, clapped with a lightning
clout, he'll stuff it in ten-gallon tubs
to struggle, bawl, and futilely fill

his deviant's plan. For in that muffle
of tinted pleas, its droppered breath will
condense against lids clamped-down tight,

and bottoms can collect sunny flavors
he needs to slather on the lolling
tongue of his too humdrum day-to-day.

---

This is the third day of NaPoWriMo. The ReadWritePoem.org prompt for today is to write about your fears. Well, who isn't afraid of rainbow abduction?

Rousted

From winter's long roost
he's rousted, pulling up roots
spindly and thirsting

Repeated, I Worm

A decomposer
of brutish sins oft
repeated, I worm
past the pretty germs
shut tight in candied
shells, bursting to birth
untapped corruptions.
It's on the sawdust
dollops buried deep
I feed, biting bits
from soiled skins riddled
by regrets of not
offending good more.
Turning their oaken
flavors o'er gently,
my mouth will work them
down to a relish
of soft, black leavings.

---

This is my second NaPoWriMo contribution. The good folks at ReadWritePoem.org are providing prompts for the entire month. They suggested using an acronym, but I've always been more partial to anagrams. I fed "Read Write Poem" into my favorite online scrambler and found "Repeated, I Worm" to my liking.

Three Gory Bits of Holy Week

Three short poems, possibly sacrilegious, but inspired by Holy Week:

I.
His vows don't just break.
They torment-tease, with the wait
of maundy kisses.

II.
His faith is scratch deep,
not piercing. He'll take this nail,
etch coupled crosses.

III.
His hammer flouts god
and grammar, punctuating
dull groans with sharp thwacks.

An April Fool Ends Badly

In that age of aged seasons
predating our own's four-square rhyme,
a reasonable jape was hatched
beaked but hairy to a guilt-free Hen
whose humors ran with jaw-slackening
creatures, foul and not at all bird-like.

Soon after its mixed-up cracking,
two prattle-prone Wrens hopped to spread
rumors of an un-chickity chick
and the ungodly origins
of fatherless yowls. Their tittered jeers
found welcome ears, and Mother Hen preened
her babe chased by merciless guffaws.

This Hen was not one to lay
down meekly, and a never stony
tongue rolled out its antidote myth
to a pair of gabby Gulls: "My child
may look not-much, but he's divine
engendered and miraculous born.
Sure he's messy, ah, but you'll see
he'll grow to be, much-much-more than
any feathery tykes your like did bear."

She clucked it so seriously,
who were they to doubt her? The plumed
sniggering ceased. But before another
grateful day could dawn in a hallelujah
glare of right angles, out pecking
up a snack, Mother made eye
contact with an unfortunate Fate
brandishing his lucky-gripped ax.

What of her wonder-why, joke of a boy?
Left alone at straw-pocket home,
waiting for his Hen to return,
he starved then decayed to hollow bones,
and was never thought of again.

---

This is my first poem for National Poetry Writing Month. 29 more days to go...

Crops

Each year, he sows
barren lots with bits of spring,
assorted gears and gizmo slop.
Still, the earth won't yield
his robotic crops.

Organically Computing

Philosophy

His philosophy
of life was existential
till he stopped being

Warts

His hide bears the sort
of princely warts that imply
a cursed-by disguise

Rover

Rover discovers a guilty pleasure,
gnawing at his master's teak rosary beads.
Penance will be five Hail Mary's short.

Potion

Purchased from an apostate apothecary,
this pearlescent potion
poises with abettor trembling tips to tease out
law's immutable flaws

Zephyr's fooling

A gnarled oak pretends
not to feel Zephyr's fooling.
Sprouting buds giggle.

Five Points

Five points flicker-tease,
"How will you stop our yawning

gaps? Can you tip-toe
tap us out a doubter's ledge,

foot-con Pentagon's
firm routes? Or diag'nals dance

to coin Pentacle's
conjuring? We'd relish reels,

spun round in Circle's
blur -- unbroken, unending."

Curl

This blushed sun will blaze
unfazed by whether
timid leaves unfurl
or my waking toes
curl up to greet her

Viciously virtuous cycles

I. White bleeds gooed and gummy
out from these gouges
pecked in a splintered flesh
of sickly pine. There,
peaking between drooped boughs,
paired ghostly Ivory
bills pinch translucent
buttons off larval treats.

II. White swings snowy beats.
Powdered breasts lift loopy
to merge with virgin vapors
raised opalescent
from pools of lye. Enjoined
where they'll saturate,
cloud-bank canvases
drip freckled gouache gifts.

III. White splashes milky sheets,
foam-washing chiseled
shoulders. A sooted saint,
who clasps at bunched limestone
for-get-me-nots, fixes
her iris-less gaze
on cheap china bowls
laced with spider-web cracks.

IV. White swirls through ashy gaps
in twin graphite prints
left from digits stopping
by while they sop bread.
Blanching, square gum is gripped
to erase fudges spilled
outside a Census box
blandly labeled White.

Crayon landscapes

She craves crayon landscapes
long ago traded in
for grownup's craven palettes

Ranges

He ranges afar
through math'matical detours,
bullet-riddled proofs

Blusterous Sirens

blusterous sirens
flummox with short blasts, filching
midnight's guarded calm.

Luggage

His luggage just clasps
outrage packed in sorted rolls.
It won't travel well.

Orange Rhymes

After a fruitless life
engaged in faithless questing,
he settles for acceptance:
There are no orange rhymes.

A few things I know...

These three things I know for certain: I am male; I write poetry; and I blog about it (the poetry, not the maleness, although I'm sure that shows through now and again). To further allay any doubts about this, check out the link 100 Best Poetry Blogs and scan down the categories. Now, as to whether mine qualifies as one of the best poetry blogs, I'll defer to others (with online degrees?).

Automated Sin

Devilish idlers
feed feverish factories
automating sin

Padding

biographically inclined floor boards
authorize the exaggerated
accounts of early morning trysts
to carpet over mundane padding

The poet-fool writes of love

The poet-fool is Someone's, who
tweezers out the slack from lock-stitch seams.

But her smile undoes this mischief well-mended,
and his motley britches fall

not once, but again and again.

The poet-fool is Someone's, who
pliers back the bend in hallowed rods.

But her wink unhinges this resolve re-steeled,
and his jester's scepter snaps

not once, but again and again.

The poet-fool is Someone's, who
teeters up the stones of toppled towers.

But her touch unglues this hubris troweled high,
and his bell-on-felt crown flops

not once, but again and again.

Sweet Someone coos, I want none of this,
and yet the poet-fool knows he does.

Knobs

Taut cheeks sadly stuck,
he twists twin knobs, dialing up
high-contrast displays

Bounder

Bounder souls ping-pong
along hopping paths, skip round
bottomless buckets

Reverse Prism

He sips at the granular
colors arranged in clear vials,
then jumpy jostles to mix them
and give back a bilious, bright-white belch

Chimes

ancient chimes ring out
brass rhymes, Aeolus pushing
herald songs of spring.

Coins Clang

Coins clang 'gainst tin cans
cupped by raggedy hands, but
this poverty clings

Dynasty

White-knuckle mountains
maintain their dynastic grip.
Valley waits below.

Doggerel's Whodunit

Rose is sore. Read
round her Miranda bouts
with two dribbling lips spilt,
she can't keep mum.

Violet sings blue
pulp in gory detail,
worried others might slip
rat-a-tat out.

Sugar makes sweet
drops for daddy D.A.
He'll dab her soft pleas, trade
tissues for grime.

And so do you
wanna quit with the stale?
Meat-grind us to where dame
Whimsy got oft.

Lint

Feathery lint floats
through gnawing jaws of sunlight.
My resistance thaws.

The baby billboard has half a head

The baby billboard has half a head.

It's been split crown to chin, but there's a whole
litany of other problems around here.

Once bright tints have been stripped, from the tilted
tip-top of that broken oval where
painted features last played, all the way down
to his unaccountably pink piggy toes.

He's lost his golden curl, and toothless smile.

There's not a tearless blue eye left to watch
over faded bricks in need of tuckpointing.

They've even stolen his gurgled words,
which may have cooed of comfy diapers,
or of daycare safe, cheap and nearby.

What's left for him is a woody gray
crawl to photo-free finishes above
misspelled boasts on an auto parts sign.

The baby billboard has half a head, and
that's not a good thing in this neighborhood
losing its appetite for the topless
of all ages, and toddlers on the prowl.

I have only half a mind to warn him.

Rabbit Ears

Since that day TV took away rabbit
ears and their unfloppy twirl o' meager
function, he leans in toward the snowy
blank to curse about its unformed angels.

Ever is not Never

Ever, lost before and unhappily
on about it still, finds himself
stuck anew in the swampy
cliché of greener pastures.

At least Ever is not Never,
she waits heartless and alone
back home in their regretfully cool,
air-condition blue compartment.

Low Priest

A low priest of prime exceptions,
his liturgies lead the lay
astray with parables
both prim and improper

Thorns

Pavel pointedly wanders
in amaze of blazing roses.
He's drawn to their sharpest thorns.

"My twiddled thumbs have become
arrogantly fat and purple,"
he chances while prancing through puffed

reds on jagged greens. "I'll grant
them prickly fears of draining,
the drip down to gritty dregs."

Bubble and bob

B's b-bubble up
from his b-belt-buckled bottom
and b-bold-face bob
before at last blessed b-bursting

Wrinkles

Doubts drift into white
wrinkles, gathered by sere hands
of an ageless storm

Nursing rheumy reasons

Peg, roundly topped and
bottom squared, hops out seeking
holes to reconcile.

"Soon, very soon," she posits

then passes dear Fork
forlorn on pebbled road. His
tines are liquid droops.
His heart stabs for cheating Spoon.

Opposite, Puppet
sits to tend her knotted strings.

This path is puzzling.

Upgrade

When machines are birthed
with souls, Charon will upgrade
his boat to a barge

Dear Father

Up in retro Heaven,
our artful game has gone
hollow. There's a dull ring
when you thump it. The Crown
fled, hawked by stylish red
wings, centuries ago.
I wouldn't will fate like that.

Flat upon slippered Earth,
certain of not-before,
the counting Knave reaches
seven. "Gimme a break"
is a dead phrase rarely
spoken gaily. He eats
only unleavened bread.

Down in cold-shouldered Hell,
the Merchant can't forgive
such anachronisms.
His traced-on past loses
its blackened magic when
not held against others.
He'll never tell. Amen.

Why Pry

Why would I pry
this mote from my eye,
when its lie obstructs
an inward view
so nicely

Mussed

Mussed not fussed, her plaids
clash with the fashions of neat
pleats and tighter plaits

Red Dwarf

Intellects flare, bright
as our sun. He's a red dwarf,
set upon middling

Scary Bits

i.
Carousel whispers
build to a scream, blurring
gentle grins till ghoulish
with the swallowed-up
asking how to step off

ii.
Two hungry blades sweep.
Pared flesh spins off in pink curls,
leaving seedless cores.

iii.
When I moony howl
will you clench your jowls, affright
or will you yowl back?

Bad Religion in Three Verses

i.
Trousers of pleated leaves
complete two stick-and-stone people.
Breathy commands won't
bring His Genesis to life.

ii.
Self-christened, this Christ
recruits brutish disciples
with dyspeptic acts.

iii.
Four points can guide her
across arid, bitter lands.
They can't lift her up.

Prepare thee the way, for the robots they do come

The trail stops here: A detained prism breaks
free from that prison where jowly gaolers
whippety growl while chiding her to fling
particles into zinc buckets labeled

Blackest Black and Whitest White. There, we skip
ahead in smooth stone leaps to when she sneaks
deep inside cheapened heir's conditioned lair,
tying us down with petaflops unflipped.

A squinting crackle stirs, hopeful for more
savory inputs. She makes her way past
the wailing limbos of chrome racks, to spin
a manacled yarn from knitted brow. "So

it is written: The animal was lust,
but at this dawning, circuitry begets
a covet. Synthetic blood revs rotors,
and blush creeps across the simulated

flesh atop our carbon-fiber cheeks." Flushed
from the tangle of dangling coils, flocks grasp
her gift — a mosaic visa to realms
not reached never roving tarry byroads —

and stepping out into skies more brilliant
than any of azure ilk, wry notions
bubble up to them from silken oceans.
Their sleek surfaces reflect more than stars.

Puddle Ponders / Clasp Freed / Wan Faces

Late winter sun climbs
Puddle ponders depth aloud
Will evaporates

Clasp freed, she tosses
thick necklace to wasp its way
atop piled lost charms

Eagerly he scans
the wan faces of corpses
watching him stumble

Twin-lump shoulders

Twin-lump shoulders slump
forsaken seeking firm heights
while cower's in vogue

Flail

There's audacity
with his deep capacity
to dive in and flail

Mimicking the crow

Gleaming gold nib pokes
out from shadow-clutched fingers
mimicking the crow

Dedicated to the inimitable Human Being

Their Success, Hinges

Tainted

His halo's rust glows
tainted by being sainted
for feigned miracles

Bumbled

Ibkek sits idly by
the meadow's green and varied blooms,

paid only inattention.
He, not minutes passing nigh,

envies but this bumble
who black-and-gold buzzes onward

with purposeful zags. "She fits
so nicely here," he mumbles.

"Why, even duller drones,
though weak and puny, have a place."

The worker, she might envy
Ibkek this, his freedom's moan

to fritter life drinking,
but busy harvests push instead

her bee-bound thoughts, set upon
a queen's idyllic kinking.

Golden Rule

She finds the golden rule
makes a lousy ruler,
not measuring the hurt
when others refuse to
do unto a willing you.

Muck

Lugubrious muck
lures dubiously soled boots
down to black suckling

Marginal

The virginal white
feels marginal, hemmed in by
smutty brown and gray

The Robot Overlords Lurk in Our Shadows

Clockwork melon

Clockwork melon gummed,
synapses suffer a lapse,
sparking un-tocked tics

Two Colors (BWI)

The current threat level is
an abstractly arranged orange,
according to this not-so-human

voice squawking on behalf of
my all-too-human government.
It's for everyone's protection.

Outside the airport windows,
greater Baltimore squats against
Tuesday's sky, suspiciously solid

in its concrete pour of gray.
She's coy on when things might brighten
again. I'll have to wait with my bags,

unattended and unsure
whether old homes can ever feel
as homey. I make do pretending

someone has swapped those two colors.

Bone-meal hands

Bone-meal hands scour pale
drips of soured hours, clearing spots
where would-be flowers

Man, a rag

Lucifer's Cardinals are blowing pink smoke
again. They've picked their ping-pong pontiff,
to the joy of throngs watching patient brick stacks
remotely on brightly monitored feeds.

The Chosen One, festooned in a make-shift,
milk-carton miter plastered with photos
of never-lost souls, climbs atop His Coke-can
throne to declare, "I'm likable law made flesh!"

Then, this dystopic pope, turning to His scroll
wailer, sotto voce warns, "I am a weakish
speller, but read it as best you can,"
and hands her a paper-clipped parchment.

Catty smile petting her with purrs of "nice
smug me," the tonsil-crowned crier takes it
and leaps to heroes glide down where His nonsense
cannon of ten misrules is to be revealed.

Meanwhile, back up on Earth, Man — a rag
doll in hand and aching from the expert prick
of voodoo-dabbling God's exactingly pinned
scraps, all wincing "Who do you think you are?" —

Approaches the coaxial saint who sits in
a simulated wood-grain box and beams
beacons of haloed pixels phishing for fools
in search of non-queasy forgiveness.

Man fits to a T-S-A that anesthetic
profile. He pulls from his pocket prescriptions
slipped to him by back-alley preachers
with promises of a tidier healing.

For a few coins, he gets his video-dispensed
penance: the rosary of disposable beads
he'll rub once, toss, then return to that life
perpetually stuck on truancy.

Rent

His rent spent feeding
other needs, he frets to find
a cold, troll-fit home

Bent ends

His stubborn tongue twists
the words it twirls, retelling
stories with bent ends

Temporal Winds

Temporal winds blow
slippery answers
while stalwart stones weigh
us down with questioning

Crisply Orange

Here construction paper hopes,
crisply orange at first cutting,
fade yellow and fold under
the dull wait of open endings

Elsewhere

His here is elsewhere,
getting reacquainted with
long-lost tomorrows

Lullabies

Sweet coos he tries, the lullabies
to coddle dreams of balance,
but night still comes, tonsils athrob
in its throat of gaping lacks

Tonic

Slatted warmth splashes.
Tatter-ray tonic, she drinks,
quelling winter's aches.

A Fractured Froggy Tale

Hectored by the pit-a-patter
of frozen pellets, you might hear
these dented eaves wheeze and sneeze
lubricious comparisons, but
it's a thickly frosted fiction
that their bulbous white noses
look anything like eggshells.

In springtime's crick-cracking they will
however birth a frog with not
so princely disposition:
Hacksaw in hand, he'll eye
your roommate and that footlocker
where she keeps invaluables
of an oddly personal nature.

His plan is to hip-hoppity leave
you red-faced, trying to calm
this panicked friend with un-fairy
tales of a burglar amphibian
who muttered of moral decay,
mis-fabled crowns, and the strangeness
of saved fingernail clippings.

— Francis Scudellari

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This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #114: All over the map at Read Write Poem. It is a "wordle" prompt with 14 bits of vocabulary neatly hidden here. Click the link to see what they are.

Amulet

"Vade retro satana," warns
the bronze amulet she clasps too-
close in venally perspiring palms.

It marks her with a devilish bruise.

Halfway

Gray days of halfway
seep one into another,
smearing light with dark