Posts for June 12, 2018

gone beyond borderlands
river-moments
dsrk tombs
confusions of firefly flicker
and the ocean’s vast clarity  
a mere cup of spilled water

 A poem made entirely from last lines
of Chinese poet Li-Ho (790-816)

Waiting to go to sleep 
She closed her eyes tight
To close out the glow of anger
To silence the sound of mud
Hitting the walls and dreams
Of the house.
She curled and covered
Her ears
She prayed a child’s prayer
That tomorrow would be 
Different
Would be comforting 
Would bring a long
Easy breath
Would bring a change of heart.

Mommy.
Where’s your heart
so I can listen
to it beep?

(ear on chest, relax, breathe, smile)

It says I love
you I
love you
I love you

When to Use a Claw Hammer 

Shame, that sharp point,

a seam that will nail

a child of any age

to the studs of a house,

to the fence of an abandoned lot

or a tree in an imaginary forest—

shame, as fundamental as water and stars, 

myths, infants and smiles,

that shame, my child, can leave you

alone to unnail yourself. 

Melva Sue Priddy

The world burns my cocoon
I rush to gather my shine,
during the rhythmic wake
each morning.
Thankful for every intricate piece
of my routine.
Sensual cup of coffee.
The breaking of bread.
Butter knife dipped
in homemade jam.
Each of us
engaged in
our own secret dance.

In the gym today
a young man strained
with his weights
teeth clenched
his face a spent red rose
eyes mirrored
my drive
to         flex metaphors’ muscle
            tone words’ timbre
            stretch between stanzas

A canvas loaded with color.

Splatters, fingerprints, smears.

Vibrant pigments. 

Muted tones.

Torn canvas.

Mending stitches.

Tender touch.

Masterful design.

I have met
the man of my dreams
on several occasions,
and he was not
you.

I’m not sure why
we take it as given 
that dreams should be
some kind of authority
in these matters.

How it must have been to come over those hills,
green swells draped in mist
like a bride in silk.
How she must have seemed ripe,
ready and waiting at an altar
to pledge obedience and bounty.
This bride, though,had not chosen
such a husband.
From beneath her dress
and in the shadows of her valleys
she drew a sword more steel than theirs
and burned their visions to the ground
as she bled them,
their dead the blood on the sheets of a
marriage.

My best friend teaches medically fragile children

at an elementary school in New Mexico.

She texts me a picture from the desert of grass and trees.

In the foreground are gravestones and a wall of tombs lines the back.

“Visiting friends,” she says.

Two were former students.

She lost another one this past school year.

She regularly refers to her students as

“my kids.”

The cemetery is about a mile from her house

and around the holidays it is full of color.

She says it’s comforting

knowing her kids are close by.