Voce muto today: NaPoWriMo26 (ReBlog)
no deck of cards
no shelf of books
a world shrunk to a bed with rails
eyes light up as you grit
your teeth at hospice wails
who are you again my dear? do sit!
my eyes, my sensors,
scan the crimson pomegranate on the darkened table:
clenched kernels, a brain-fist;
some loose ones swimming- like the smallest squid
in a shadow sea
…before the picture then, came the sensor eye,
…then culture handprinted on cave walls
…those grunts floating between apes
…at last flattened into print…
these pomegranates are not conversing;
they have now turned black,
like an art statement of the cave hour;
my blind edges stay frayed,
but the pomegranates jeer with ghoulish faces
and ignite the flee or fight response
(should we teach our machines to think in pictures first?)
my mirrored eyes of blind insight focus inward:
maybe our culture will desert us
and so too our consciousness,
when our mismanaged earth starts boiling
and a phase change
turns us back into rocks.
Young Pup and Old Bat
He stands so tall and is so chivalrous;
my heart frolics in baroque melody!
I dream only of open sesame
and savour romance and a love wondrous.
I fear I know this:
Scoundrel of the first degree
Bitter tears will pass
I will study hard for independence;
Work all day and night to achieve my best!
Passing my degree well, the acid test!
This, and pure love will lead to transcendence!
Do what you love best
And forget about the rest
Life is too short dear
This is a fantastic blood group diet!
Now I’ll lose those pesky extra pounds!
Their promise strong of health and beauty sounds!
I can do this; I will not be quiet!
Just eat your greens, child
Also get good exercise
Drink lots of water
Oh, I can not abort the precious gift,
if I do, sure to fiery end I’ll go.
It might even be Michaelangelo.
Mum, will this life then be a living hell?
This is your choice my love
You yourself are worthy too
No slave to small slip
(H/T: Dialogue prompt for Day Fourteen)
I am sick :(
corkscrewed, schnozzled, with long-digit dukes
he midwives ink; feeds it imagination,
then slaughters it; cuts it down to size
(not a butcher)
taut, patient, oh-so-balanced,
she kneads the lumps of dough, gets them to rise
to her expectations
(not a baker)
skeletal, soft-spoken journeyman,
he saws and hammers; hums
-no walking on water-
(not a candle-stick maker)
(Friday Feline meets Friday Field Mouse)
A one-sided stand-off was occurring
between the window and the birdhouse;
cat whiskers slightly trembling,
deconstructing seeds: the field mouse
ever-twitching rodent fluff ball,
foraging for food with cheeky grin
good neighbours made by this glass wall
he outside and she within
inside the exasperation rose:
jiggling shivers ran across her fur,
kitten’s nostrils wide on her pink nose
lightly vibrating in a strangled purr
more twitching consumed the feline frame,
nose now pressed against the window pane
oh, let me out, that mouse is game!
perturbations, as she miaowed in vain
quite ignorant of her palpitations,
rather nonchalant he rises on his haunches;
stares with now-nascent suspicions
towards where an evil shadow launches:
ugly intentions from that thud emanate!
verily, he has a sudden epiphany:
why be sorry? he hightails for the garden gate,
excited though to be the subject of such scrutiny
yonder smart field mouse, for now, free,
zooms away, squeaking with rodentish glee.
(OK, I am out of time; H/T: today’s prompt)