Category Abstract and Modern Freestyle Poetry
A Scorpio snake
Longing for
The white hot desert
As pure as a needle tip
Under a naked flame
As I slither
And scratch around
The dirty streets
Of humanity
Trying my best
Not to bite
Or sting
Down Rue de Bellevue
To deposit the glass
From the previous nights
Of drinking
And writing
and let me watch you
unfold
like the tongue
of a butterfly.
Probe my pistils
and my stamen.
I am
the rarest flower,
the chocolate orchid;
Heart of none, exhausted blank
Deaden to hopes, black holes gnashing pit
Love lays slaughtered amongst sanity’s skin
Truth bare, broken hearted growls.
Tree of life bends now tree of death,
Will for one, all for naught.
When will arid soul give way to soaring rains?
during her first steps
she cannot see through her eyes on the wings
thus she cleans her inner lens from magnifying –
with every other step she listens to her soles
I wondered if I was spared or
punished by it.
See three smiling cousins,
around age eight,
spattered with mud, after
an afternoon spent playing
in the sodden, low spot in the yard
A tiny, pale blue dot,
is all there is,
it is not such a lot
but it is everything
to us.
We share this speck
of dust in a void,
and what we are,
what we were,
and what we become,
is all because
so far
Of populous populations,
Supply is often halted beyond the womb
And should a child make it
To the densely packed production line,
There are no lifetime guarantees
No best before, or after birthday dates
Supply outcries demand.
But demand increases should you move
Within the factory floor,
Be placed onto the packaged line
“First World”
Or stamped and wrapped:
“For Family Wealth”
They come out as whispers and rolled eyes
I blink, and a rose blooms but no one notices
I hum, and life is found on a new planet
A melody is created but they only see me walk
They see my curves but not my angles
Scarlet life joining frosted earth
A Valkyrie’s cry, a kiss fading in winter’s tide
Her touch, death’s caress?
Or life’s yearnful embrace?
She departed in a flurry of wings, took flight.
As a child I saw faith
in fragments of color
First Communion white
blood red martyr Sundays
the altar draped in purple
