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?”)

the paradox of writing

trying becomes inoperative
as oneness has no polarity
follow words
as the idea of ritual surfaces and customs
keep further dividing
and creating chaos
as the centuries hear
without being concerned
by the total opposite of life
as laid out

follow words
as specific dichotomies surface –
in descending order
a piece of God
and I need no device
to confirm it
knowing an artificial contrivance –
a perspective of desiring
leaving nothing

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

a creative writing exercise in white|black out poetry ♠

originally culled from: Change Your Thoughts – Change Your Life – Living the Wisdom of the Tao by Dr. Wayne Dyer : reflections on the 38th verse of The Tao Te Ching 

I sourced and culled from Wayne Dyer’s reflections and interpretation of this passage, creating a “white out poem” then further stripped it down and changed some of my chosen lines by re-placing them, breaking the ‘natural order’ – letting myself play with the idea of “paradox” which then became my interpretation of “oneness” in relation to the writing process = an interesting word game|exercise and meditation 

38th Verse

38th Verse

A truly good man is not aware of his goodness
and is therefore good.
A foolish man tries to be good
and is therefore not good.

The master does nothing,
yet he leaves nothing undone.
The ordinary man is always doing things,
yet many more are left to be done.

The highest virtue is to act without a sense of self.
The highest kindness is to give without condition.
The highest justice is to see without preference.

When the Tao is lost, there is goodness.
When goodness is lost, there is morality.
When morality is lost, there is ritual.
Ritual is the husk of true faith,
the beginning of chaos.

The great master follows his own nature
and not the trappings of life.
It is said:
“He stays with the fruit and not the fluff.”
“He stays with the firm and not the flimsy.”
“He stays with the true and not the false.”

The Tao Te Ching by Lao-tzu

Wish Breaker

what of the hauntings in your heart?
does terror leap and grab
you in the throat
or are there seeds planted as wishes
held sacred in this most secret
of gardens
where artemisian light flows wild
and free with an inner strength
both curse and blessing
in these
watery dreams –

what makes or breaks your legs
in these moments
lucidly held in your hands –
do you tremble whisperingly light –
a slice of a shiver
some untranslatable on the tongue
silver grey scale
like the runaway fish that surface break
and bubble kiss in their undisclosed
pathos –
an innocence locked in the mistral’s wings
a symphony strung in silver violins –
volumptuous chords drinking from the goblets
of the psyche long held ancient
whining in the bended elbow of the old oak –
or is it an apple tree –
the rubble the remains of your town
which upped and left
of its own discord
as you flew away
in a slurry of swirling skirts brushing
against your exposed ankles –
this is the war inside us –
we are children of a wondering moon –
nothing more than fallen fruit

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: writing prompt sunday: “it’s all in the title”

Wish Breaker
Undisclosed Pathos
The Silver Violin
Children of the Wondering Moon
The Haunting of Cora Applebaum
Whispers in the Willow Trees
Psychic Chasms
When Fish Runaway
The War Inside of Us
The Town that Went Missing

all great titles of choice – so I opted to weave ideas and essences from each into “one” thing ♠