Under the waiting rain

I passed through you
under the waiting rain.

the lighter pulp is heavy
under the waiting rain.

a Portland ghost- you-
two iron balls weighted
against a scale, measured.

you thought you were
a dark marauder. A boy

with Greta Garbo eyes- two
coins for the Styx current,

This day you are a ghoul,
a gated coast to walk through-
And I have no regrets.

Background happenings...

Ms. Abbey and I actually workshopped tonight!  Woo, it's been FOREVER since I had a good workshopping.

Also, Ms. Anna will be in town for a month; she has instigated a weekly workshopping.  It's like I'm a writer.  What's the shit with that?!

heee.

Anyway, summary: NaNoWriMo is successful, so far!

Love, sunshine, kisses and puppies,
Kirstikins

Poem 8

Funeral Procession II

A field in Amherst, Massachusetts
The white lady passes as a shade
over the bursts of buttercup

We will paint murals of her, later
and let her Mona Lisa smile
double over lychen encrusted bricks

For now- we will whisper Susie's name
and hug the ghome's girlhood
after the carriage kindly stopped

Poem 7

Funeral Procession I

Carry her through the streets.
Wrap her in four-point gauze.
Throw the sun-glazed confettii
into the canopy of music,
of weeping, of singing, of
old hands sweeping strings
For she brought a populist God
to his knees.
She broke his
paintbrushes over the backs of
his lovers hidden in siennas,
lapis, thick modernist lines.
She pulled a small death from her
body, not once, but twice,
and carried it on her shoulders
and still stands, she does stand
an iron-backed woman, with
steady eyes and a canvas heart.

Day 5, Poem 1 & 2

Spring & Summer, by Angelyn Taylor

The Acorns

They line the window sill, this mast
tradition is a ritual in nature's mass
You follow spring's unfurling roots
Where the acorns bask in the soft morning.

This is the place where lightening
has been made to feel unwelcome-
A god can rest beneath your canopy-
A quickening, you pray palms raised.

This Summer

This ocean is in bloom

It rocks against the humid

tide and pulls the mosquitos,

The june bug's awkward hum, 

The cicada burrows as pin-

pricks at the oak tree's base.

Indian paintbrush sways 

with the tide, in bloom and 

wild geraniums fan their hands 

in the wind's floatsum-

We have reached this ocean

to compromise with God.

Update!

What happened to Day 3 and Day 4?

I'm four poems behind and I'm having serious issues with my prompts.  So here's what I'm doing- prompts when I want, gone when they're an impediment.  Hopefully I can get caught up this weekend.

Day 2: Art Prompt

Winter, by Angelyn Taylor

The Lovers

Thick salvia clusters
the evergreen hedge
a graveyard of crackled

shades and spikes that
weave and bop- a
tapestry of embrace. They

are tangled, interlocked,
caught naked by the
ancient holly berries.

Day 2: Art Prompt

Fall, by Angelyn Taylor

A Gift from Heliopolis

And she is veined in gold glit-
a fan-leaf phoenix.

I bring her frankensence-
She gnashes at the egg shell.

toes flexing above Buddha,
Medea in her palm,

She curls into the sky, braided
up through November gusts.

Day 1: New Writer Response Prompt

Rondo
by Janet Holmes 

The noun one keeps batting away
refuses declension. 

He says, I don’t want to be
twenty-four again.
Twenty-four was a handful: 

the flawless
meatflesh, best self, miraculous
leap/thump on the hardwood,
the twist and splash. 

The exuberance
in the present tense, 

the timebound blood pump
two throbbing lungs butt
in their bone cage 

surges to bursting.
He does not perdure 

in this internal defection:
so rare, and so heroic.

Ritornello

To this you must admit
Her skin was a coat of glitter
amber-lit.

She whispered the wind in code-
her sharp canines could not remit
a simple slither
at the funeral home visitation..

Day 1: Old Writer Response Prompt

Emily Dickinson 

Her breast is fit for pearls,
But I was not a `Diver' -
Her brow is fit for thrones
But I have not a crest.
Her heart is fit for home -
I - a Sparrow - build there
Sweet twigs and twine
My perennial nest.

The Flight of Emilie

My sparrow is, at once, here
she is in the night of time
and paces the door frame-
She ruffles against grain,
but she isn’t trapped by stars-
There is a moment before flight
and she, with again human
hands, presses against me
and mutes my breath.