sunny days

some days they creak
like the old oak brushing her tin roof
old bones rattle they say
in fear of the reaper grim
but her bones wer’nt ready yet
for a dusty pine box
mayhap she might be old
but certianly not for the glory
but the glory was a comin’
and she got ready every day
not much to her now
her ebony skin as thin as parchamant
more wrinkles than not
thin and frail, joints swollen
in a white flanel gown
she spat a chuckle as she thought
about how much that old mirror
used to like her beauty
The Almighty didn’t cotton much
to pride and pretty faces
when He left you here to do His work
he stripped you down
an empty vessel for Him to fill
so she waited and she prayed
and she rocked and read of His glory
and all she asked
was a good BM
and glorious sunny days
.
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written for one single impression ` sunny days

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soft

Soft

that was the only way

to describe the night

she’d lane awake

restless and yearning

as a woman child will

unable to sleep, unwilling

slipping through her window

she had escaped

into a mystical night

the fog was thick

trees loomed as she wandered

hands buried deep in pockets

not cold, only alone

it was easy to pretend

she was far away

sounds came muffled

the bark was damp

where she touched

clearing the wood

the meadow was a bowl

of rolling cotton

as she slid open

the creaking barn door

her nose tickled by

the dry smell of

well cured hay

she climbed the old wood ladder

and opened the doors

on the east

nestled in the warmth

of sweet grass and hay

she slept till the sun

brought her home

unquenchable thirst

 
in the basin languishes
the pulp and tendrils
of a potent sangria
made with naked giggles
too much wine, not enough fruit
drank from an old chipped cup
poured over breasts
consumed by women adept
at the pleasure of women
loath to uncouple
dusk skewing shadow and light
their disembodied satisfaction
slowly unraveled an
unquenchable thirst
and in the gloaming once more
deeply they drank
.
.
.
.
written for Poefusion Friday 5

silly little girls

Granny couldn’t stand for us

to be stuck up in the house

under her feet was where

we wanted to be

box fan in the corner

blowing summer heat around us

“Out, Outside”

she’d shout

and we’d tumble out the house

and off the porch

all arms and legs and not much else

gangly and brown with summer

we’d run a wire out the window

playing the record player

over and over

and teach ourselves to dance

under a shade tree

next to the house

sheets snapped crisp

in the summer breeze

you could smell the green

of summer in them

and end each day

catching lighting bugs

in a jar

to dream

a thin line of dust

covers the pen

as the ink dries

paper once white

now yellows

and curls

tomes opened

to random pages

lie scattered and forlorn

an old quilt

draped across

the writers chair

creeps slowly

slowly

to the floor

the writer

has gone off

to dream

when I control the wind

when i control the wind
i will not let it freeze
or bite through bones so cold
i will move it gently
carressing tender skin
 
when i control the wind
i will not let it destroy
or bring about destruction
i will push it through my hair
fast, warm, wild and free
 
when i control the wind