MAGPIE/ Prompt #70

                                             photo/ Tess Kincaid/  Magpie Tales


Thanks, Tess, for this enigmatic photo..for MAG #70...


GRADUATION

I know why you're buying this.
I know it's not for my virginal looks,
a purity left on the snapshot,
tempered by innocence,
enforced by whispers.

But the photo will go,
soon to be slipped
from under the glass,
removed, and I know
you'll toss it into the trash
and it will land face down
next to the orange peel,
that the cat will sniff
and maybe paw.

I know the treasure
is the fine beadwork
that I stretched around the edge,
red to match my hair.

My day of delight,
youth and splendor
was even then slipping away.

I know,
but $1.99 is still $1.99.


copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011


http://www.minblu.blogspot.com
http://twitter.co/lynxny

Revolution...

IT SEEMS THAT there's a revolution going on, somewhere.  The usual suspects, the usual destruction.  Once again, front page news.  Tune in tomorrow for the solution.


REVOLUTION

I'm thinking, remain a step ahead.
Pulling and pushing the door,
trying to open it,
to escape,
what a fool,
so easy to fall.

Splinters glance off
the jagged face of the past,
points of shattered wood
slide under my nails
as if they were meant to unleash
some torture.
 
And then a beast tears up the floor
and spits it out.

Comes the revolution they say.
Well, here it is.

Now snakes of retribution are waiting.
That was a mirror I stood before,
glass shattered,
moments of shoving,
walk away.
It's not a rehearsal.

copyright/all rights reserved/ 2011

http://www.minblu.blogspot.com/
http://twitter.com/lynxny
                                

Looking Out.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxTHE WINDOW
X
I was standing on the warm side of the glass
last year
as a deer tracked along the fence,
stopping to snatch
a crimson berry
lying beside a jutting root.
x
The cold side of the window
wore its winter mask.
A panorama of shivering trees,
frozen in a blind ritual of icy slumber,
waited for a signal breeze
to bloom the first bud.
x
This year the snow is less stacked.
A filmy blue curtain touches my face
as I lean against the window frame,
again in honey warmth.
x
I watch a squirrel in chilly famine
scrape the barren earth,
not two feet away
from where we buried Harleycat
on August fifteenth.
x
He loved to sit on the sill
in sleepy pleasure,
watch a cardinal swoop
to alight on a low branch of the sycamore,
then leap against the glass
with a craving
to make the red feathers his feast.
x
x
from Two Ghosts/ poems
x
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