31 December 2012

Tobacco Flower

Image by louisa_catlover

I want to touch your white, pointed petals
Before they burn.
Your flower flesh is much too soft
To kill me quick,
So let me caress your leaves
While they’re still green.

I wish my breath could keep them
But I know it kills you.
So I must keep you
We should take our final gasps

Share me these last days.
Let me carry your picture
In my weak heart.

I will take your sweet bouquet.
I will dig you up and hold you close.
I will wrap a silk bag around your roots.
To keep moist earth
Clutched between their knotty fingers
So they don’t dry like dead bones.
I will warm you in my arms,
Squeeze you with my trembling limbs,
And kiss you again and again and again.

Submitted at The Mag. The inspiration Tess offered is the image below.  I also offered a little reading. My mom was a heavy smoker. My dad was a very light smoker. My brother is a a pretty heavy smoker. And myself, I'm a non smoker.  So this is personal, but really an imagined point of view. 
Image from R.A.D. Stainforth

11 December 2012

Hold Me Tight Forever

Cactus Fruits with clouds, Centanario, Baja California Sur, Mexico 0794
Image by Wonderlane

Let me be your cactus fruit
At the top of the desert.
Ladder up my prickly spines
Until I am part of your skin.
Lean against my green needle bed.
Reach your pin pricked fingers
Up against the stiff sand
And the pull of the hot earth.

Climb just one more stabby rung.
The arid floor so far away now,
There's no need to go back.
No way to get down.
Let the heat have us both.

Sunbeams blister down
My outstretched arms,
Redden your flesh bare back
As the hours glow and sizzle.

Stay with me in this beautiful swelter.
Hold me tight forever.

Sometimes the difficulty of attaining a goal can leave us with something that is just as hard as the process of getting that something. Sometimes it's worth it. This is offered at Sunday Scribblings, under the theme grounded. Also posted at dVerse Poets Pub for Open Link Night.

09 December 2012


My geometry is going wrong.
The circles are unwinding.
The lines are unstraightening.
The latitudes are not parallel.
My map is not right.

The chemicals in my memory
Have turned corrosive.
They drip down in tiny combustions
That extinguish on the paper.
But not before they burn through
Whole towns.

Too many quick-blaze tears.
Too many holes in the paper.
I can’t see the highway numbers
Or the county line.

Follow at your own risk.

Inpsired by the picture prompt at The Mag for Mag 147.

06 December 2012

Wash Your Hands

Fine Without You
Image from Tribute/Homenaje

In the aftermath, I breathed
And it must have gotten in.
Your weapons were only resting.
Damaged, maybe.
But not destroyed.
Not rusted and bent.
I should have scuttled them.
I should have blown them to bits.

But I inhaled instead,

All the hate in like hot bullets.
Battle weary and weak,
You dress my wounds in my white flag,
Knowing all your little deaths
Are multiplying inside me.
And I know it too, but I’m powerless
Against every internal puncture.
And then you can wash your hands.

You can cease fire.
You can be a saint.

Tiny cuts abrasive in the airways,
Fill my lungs with fluid.
I’d cough out the death in
Wet red that  would drip on your fingers
So people could see that your hands
Weren’t really so clean.

I’d cough it out
But my diaphragm only pulls the heavy death breath
Deeper into my belly.

If you could just reach your hand into my chest,
I’d have you harvest the heart from my body
And I could die then.
With all the blood,
All the blood
On your hands.

Inspired by and posted at Three Word Wednesday. The words were battle, fluid, and harvest. I have also included a very subpar reading.

03 December 2012

This Hungry Space

Image from to.wi

This space between us
Is a dangerous place.
It’s a hungry jungle.
Don’t come here,
Where the tigers haven’t eaten.
You can watch their hunting gaits
From far away.
Would you really want to see their wide mouths?
The whites of their eyes?

This is between us.
This space.
This necessary space.

Your good intentions will bleed
Like a ripe belly
When the teeth go in.
We will leave you
Crumpled in the underbrush
With the corpse of your kindness
And the memory of your smile.

The idea for this actually came from a much more harmless place than the jungle. But it took off in that direction.l I really wanted to record audio for this, but I'm too tired. Inspired by Sunday Scribblings #348.