Breathe Again

forget not –
be pleased with all your efforts
if they have been as your honest is
as the day is long
look up to slip and sip
drinking of the sky
look down to peer into the deep
bright blue
stars twinkling in the twilight
at your feet
and when you level your gaze
remember to slip between the seam
of sharp and clear focus
and dream of the colours
that move your soul

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

words for Just Breathe

By What Name Are You Known?

it drips – blood –
beading in a thread from the weave you pricked into your skin, along your inner thigh, trying to disguise the blessed virgin’s face
it steeped up as an aubergine bruise, after you took tea with the stranger next door
all the while wearing a melancholic look –
lost child the world has come undone, and you despair
you are called by the lines – crow’s feet –
they roost under your eyes, a woman who discovered that her body, contained
within the expanse of breasts and vagina, was not a nesting place for those whose hands wear 6 inch nails
you seek under a slip of silk, a permission pass –
to yearn beyond, because Freud imagined a pear to be a poor substitute for an apple, but willingly blamed your hysteria on your vagina and monthly blood anyway –
it was easier than admitting his impotence

now you live in seclusion, in Baba Yaga’s Hut –
the foundations broken wishbones and the floor a scattering of chicken feathers
and you bend in on yourself under the weight of the gale, the sky a misfit black fisted threat, but it can’t break a willow’s spine, much less when the leaf has long been stripped
in some respect, you regret your awakening, you wish for the bald blindness that was once your shield and protection –
awareness is bitter, the pocked pit of the nectarine you bite into with canine teeth, tearing at the ruby coral labial flesh, scaling hand over foot to mouth, to over-ride the pain, scaffolding into the royal black sky, as the stars are hungry this night

so it is you fall back, nuzzling the earth, eating the meat of the flesh before loping away in graceful strides – wolf
costumed in this body so foreign it weighs, like a spinning globe in your hands, territories uncharted but lands raped between head space and anus –
you, cast out from the foothills, where the archer rests his long bow –
in the darkness you ask of the moon, could you be called by any other name, other than the typical, the mimeomia sameness a first skin all women wear
and she calls out – wild child
– and you accept, refusing to wear a crown of thorns

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: wordle#157

1. Blood
2. Despair
3. Woman
4. Seek
5. Seclusion
6. Willowy
7. Beaten
8. Aware
9. Nectarine
10. Scaffold
11. Wolf
12. Mimeomia ((n.) the frustration of knowing how easily you fit into a stereotype, even if you never intended to,even if it’s unfair,even if everyone else feels the same way — each of us trick-or-treating for money and respect and attention,wearing a safe and predictable costume because we’re tired of answering the question,“What are you supposed to be?”)

201 files

I am most familiar
in high contrast –
the blindingly brilliant days
when the garbage strewn back alleys
and black metal stairs
case themselves
in an opaque darkness
the details are hardpressed –
etched in asphalt and grey scales

It is here I wait
frame and click –
letting vignettes breathe themselves
into a life –
culled from the trance
you of the ordinary
perform mundane rituals –
recycling binned
re-shift the broken wooden pallet
upon which sit two balding truck tires
a sprocket wrench and a rusting bolt
its nut long lost somewhere
as a cracked wing mirror reflects back –
things are no longer closer than they appear
while a thicket of tomatoes
in 4 gallon pails
full green in leaf and spider-legged yellow blossoms
jungle your path
the red fruit staked and tied up
with flesh coloured panty hose
cut at the crotch
and a juicy beefstake boy is almost full
to bursting
waiting for your loving hand –
the pluck
from stem to plate
in infinite grace
of your tread on the spiral staircase
your escape and launch
from 3rd story back door
to courtyard
where you tend to an oblique slice
of asphalt and concrete life
renting out your dreams
in the day-to-day

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: saturday’s mix

Tea for Two


it is an echo
a lingering reflection
waiting with invitation
I try to avoid
until its quiet persistence knocks
one too many times
and I open my soul’s door

I sit within the well
of my loneliness
we are face to face
you and I
I uneasy
you quietly resigned
and the grey silence
lengthens like a thread
until I nervously pull loose
a string
and ask –
would you like tea?
– yes, that would be fine
and I rise
but turn back
we are face to face
ask –
how do you like it?
and honey
or lemon?
perhaps just black?

time stretches the grey gauze
until I am loose and split-cut
my eyes brimming
as you reply
-yes, all of that, is just fine

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

image: Japanese ceramics: sourced without certainty as to the artist – but I would love to know ♠