»
Archives
»
Open Poetry #46
»
notes to self
| Open Poetry #46 |
|
notes to self |
|
|
bel1e Senior Member
since 2006-07-24
Posts 1631
|
1. begin with lipstick; burn it to its raw ends, beauty is after all, the new black. 2. I am a verb written upon a vellum marquis, four letters beneath an aluminum moon, savior of night jars and fireflies. 3. the scar at my breast is a fire-glass hummingbird, a sweet diminishing of Sunday school hymns set in stone to melt scarlet as a heart, from the honey of even such imperfect love, as ours. 4. just below the collarbone, puckered and shaped like the body of a dragonfly, the stitches used to be uneven lines, and held the shadow of wings. 5. bones, they say were once used as paper…difficult, I’d imagine, to inscribe, as it may have involved fractures and the secret architecture of insinuation, beneath the glass, I shudder, my frame made strange, gold-tipped and dangerously askew. 6. the young girl dreams of grasshoppers and the phosphorescent sound of swiftly beating wings; she dreams he is drowning and the spinning goes on and on, a nightlight. 7. your presence here is pure accident; dodging, the barometer was wrong, it promised grey and wet…heavy skies, instead. 8. early soothsayers threw dice made of the heel bones of hooved animals, like antelope or lamb; so languid in repose, the spirit learns to relinquish itself and lizards free-fall to the ground as bells’ tongues rend the Angelus. 9. at noon, I scan the skies for rain and omen birds carry the fear of avian flu; pupae in glass jars, and I squirm into my blue jeans. 10. divination is the art of reading the future, a blue horizon dissolves like tissue in the distance, from the dark ocean bed, a ribcage emerges, an emaciated archive, all the gaps between; the missing years that must be filled-in by hand, under the glow cast by a tasseled lamp over a séance table. 11. cerise, the color of death will surprise the waxwing still carrying a warning in its beak. 12. on Wednesday mornings, I’ll name my daughters obscure, reservoir, ghostweed, and sew them dresses from the sand, and bind their books from dried cuttlebone burnishing the spine that promises, in time, to crack fully open. 13. some nights the dove of sleep lays its own head upon its down indigo breast and cries for release. 14. the dream remains, a stolen Valentine, alights like a pigeon behind window bars made of chrome integers and glass, red constellations like scars embedded in the vertebrae, gooseflesh in beveled chains.  |
||
| © Copyright 2010 babygirLPress - All Rights Reserved | |||
|
serenity blaze Member Empyrean
since 2000-02-02
Posts 27738 |
15. I will practice and learn the art of invisibility. (I even bought the appropriate ring.) Remind me to introduce you to Sethia. If ever I find her again...you are a very interesting poet, you are. I enjoy the weave of your words, unlike anything I'd ever thunk before...  |
||
Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
love this format and the way you use language..and images.. 3,5,7,.... perhaps the ones I was touched most by for some reason this time... lovely work Mari.... as always |
||
|
bel1e Senior Member
since 2006-07-24
Posts 1631 |
Serenity~~ I think I have a ring like that too~~ Thanks for checking this out~ |
||
|
bel1e Senior Member
since 2006-07-24
Posts 1631 |
Thanks for looking in on me, Chief~ xoxoxox |
||
|
|
⇧ top of page ⇧ |
|
| All times are ET (US). All dates are in Year-Month-Day format. | ||
