A Story Where

A story where I write about you, but you’re covered in changes.
With enough rearranges,
That someone could believe,
At least, a bit more than me.

A story where I write about you, but as tiny rabbit.
Hit by a car, truck, or train.
And all I can see is the skewed
View from the street.
Heatwaves and blood.
Snapped neck,
Gristle and bone,
Dark halo.

Heart
Slowly
Slowly
Slowing.

A story where I write about you, but you’re not such a dick.
You climb from the contraption,
Just to see what happened.
Spot the small bunny with eyeballs loose,
Runny.

A story where I write about you, but you’re hidden in
Flickers of allegory.
Splashes of enlightenment.

You with your hands on your hips.
And a sick smile on your lips,
Lift my broken body
With the tip of your shoe.

A story where I write about you, but the fantasy is waning.
And the truth is regaining.
So, when I go flying, I’m not that surprised.

I twist in the air.
Search for the semi, fox, or plane,
That will finish me off,
Instead of your face.

A story where I write about you, but this time I get it.
I can write all I want,
Reconstruct.
Make excuses.
But truth will out
And
It’s time for me to accept
That you’re just a fucker.
And
I have no regret.

Truth Behind Editing

You’re ready to do edits for me?
You bet, I’ve got my red pen.
Well, okay, thanks. I could use fresh eyes. I’m already on my third draft.
Third, you say? Great. I’ll grab that hard copy, get it back to you in a bit.
Done already?
Nope, just the first five pages.
Oh, whoa, it’s really slashed up. Red.
We’ll be working together for a while.
It could hardly have been a bloodier beginning.

Word count: 75
Edition 7

micromondays

– Poem 4 – Gloves

Long thin tail, dark corner
Lift the cardboard
Small rat, not moving
Muddled brown
Frown at swarming flies and accompanying smell
Death reigns, dried blood
Burnt sienna
Plastic shopping bag glove
Grip on the rat
Slough of skin, plop of muscle nut-brown
New glove:
Tawny rat puppet

Poem 4: Focuses on repeating a single color throughout the poem. Personal thoughts – everyone else wrote about beauty, flowers, longing, etc. I wrote about a personal experience.

Mighty 5 in fifty minutes Poem Workshop by Margaret Pettis attended during the LUW 2017 Fall Conference.

Sweetie Pie

Can you believe it? A perfect little fluff ball all curled up, purring in my lap.

She’s the most wonderful, soft, cuddly, tiny sweetheart ever.

Such a good Kitty.

Hey, let me see her! It’s my turn!

No, stop. Let go!

Ow! Bad Kitty! Mom!

Girls. Calm down. Kitties can be both. Good and bad do exist. Even in something precious.

3rd edition
Word count: 61

First Haiku-2

Attended my second writing conference ever. The place was overflowing with amazing authors, editors, publishers, experts, volunteers. I met so many amazing people. Not like, “oh, you’re amazing” blah blah cuz you’re here too, but “you’re real, genuine, kind, accepting, open, generous, interested, just overall amazing. I’m lucky to have met you.” See the difference?

I learned a lot, too. I can’t wait to go to the next conference. The LUW cares so much about its members and the writing community, each person affiliated with them spreads the same message of appreciation and concern. They’re wonderful.

Pluma Passes Out

Pluma paced, preoccupied.
Perhaps, she went too far this time.
Her heart, she followed, though plummeting inside.

Pluma played it safe, you see, her designs always quite clean.
Pedestrian, pacifying, plain.

Please.

Pluma pulsed within, craving dynamic peppy seams.
Passion for fashion pushed her over the edge.
Now she waits for critics to drop their sledge.

The paper slips under her door.
Pluma pounces, peeks, prays.
And before she can pull her eyes away,
Pluma sees Princess Pud
On the full cover front page,
Parading about in her new favs

The headline reads:
Princess Pud Proudly Prances in Her New Pluma Puffy Pantses!

Puffy Pants are all the rage
Thanks to Pluma and her plucky passion for forward thinking fashion!

Oh, good god,
She can hardly believe it.
Pluma passes out
Just to conceive it.

Dream Writing

I had a dream I wrote a poem. Inspired and fluid.
Excited, I stopped to read it.
To relive what I’d done.
Realizing as I searched that it was gone.
Never here really.
Just penned in my sleep.

Vertigo. I remember.
Earnest. True words.
And connection. A shared meaning understood.
Bright blue electricity snaking.
Images flashing white. Ignition.

You knew what I meant. What I wanted to say.
A shroud lifted. Light piercing through a dark room.
Questions forgotten. Explanations excused.
Insight. An unmistakable link.
Ease spread. It rippled across your face.

Just a dream though.
Tumbling in the dark.
Words about something that moved me …
Something I had to make clear.
To create. To do justice.
To completely share.

Loss and disappointment at what was only a dream.
Just a lingering desire remains.
I want to dig it out of there.
That poem.
Deep inside my brain.

Hope Is For Cowards

When you’re wishing for something that will likely not happen

But try anyway …

You hope.

And when it ultimately  fails, you can say

I had hoped …

And then consolation from somewhere

deep, nearby, far away.

When you’ve wanted, dreamed, dared

But don’t actually say it will happen …

You hope.

Hope is for cowards.

Just a backward way of setting yourself up

For failure.