When The Muse Spits Blood – A Poem By Carol J Forrester

These gums are splinter strewn with pencil shards
from musing on ideas,
chewing the fat,
picking bones from the meat of a thought
until it sits on the page just right
stripped to sinew,
muscles drawn tight
pure power
in a few dangerous words.

Heatwave

The Spring was wet,

enough that the trees still look alive above the yellow grass,

their roots searching out hidden wells to keepĀ from losing too many leaves.

In their shade the heat has baked the ground into a bad ceramic,

the glaze already chipped and cracked in this overheated kiln.

Camouflaged by brittle stalks the sacrifices go unnoticed,

dust to dust, ashes to ashes, the trees can only stand so long.

dverselogo