All posts tagged: poet

Roots and Branches #DVersePoetics

Half this family tree has been watered until the branches hang heavy with fruit.   We know all the name, if not the faces, see the resemblance in the variety.   On the other side we know much less, can’t quite feast on what is left.   There are wanderers in this blood, apples that fell far and wide and distant.   Strangers in stranger places bobbed, grew their own trees from loose cores.   People put down roots, grew branches, spread the distance between lines.          

Standing The Test #WeekendWritingPrompt

Cup the whole of me in one hand. Hold my belly up to a light, judge my origins, if I might be the real deal.   Examine my spine carefully through this sheen of skin while I burn like paper, edges curling in as I smoke.   Test the me between teeth, bite down, heads up, crack your enamel on my silver forked tail.   Spit me free with blood and tooth and every question asked to test the mettle in me.   Wonder why I leave with a word like love so sour in my mouth I choke.

Walking These City Streets #DVersePoetics

We walk till our soles protests at every stop-sign and crossing place. Like stitch splitting when you slow for breath, the burn thickens.   We are far from home, further still from familiar, so we cannot pause on this side-street, or linger on a corner place as we might do elsewhere.   We can stretch our steps, gnash the concrete paves into cobbles and pathways. Break highways down to track.   Trip over the ache beneath onto older ground. Learn how to read reassurances of new landmarks.   Wander until this is home.

When Our Monuments Burn

Fire-dwarfed we all sit, stand, wait, drawing along timelines scythe-eyed for news or perhaps revelation that this is all just a dream, a joke.   Dust-tongued our words dry up like sand through an hour glass. All gone and past leaving only empty air. A promise cracked apart.   History pour out, breaks the damn of grief and dark-vowelled words, replacing now with then as what will be already spread its roots in the tear-culled.      

Language Past – #DVersePoet #Quadrille

She was legs, hips, breasts, and bone. Same as a cow, worth less perhaps.   Dredged up words from the dark well of your mouth, not ancient, just old.   “Ace” a hiss, curled around the syllable.   Careful, you are wearing history with no place here. Tonight’s Quadrille prompt from the bar is the word ‘Ace’. I did a bit of a google search and discovered that in the middle ages, the word ‘ace’ could be used to be ‘of no worth’ or ‘bad luck’.