fracture

nose to nose

I can feel your 
breath
you’re almost
too close to
reality
I try to scream
I can’t find my 
voice
if this is real
it’s not right
it’s insanity
am I awake
or even alive
I search for 
clues
in my files
for some clarity
the more I seek 
just to flesh you out 
the deeper you dive 
shaping
arcs in
zero gravity
you are the ghost
that runs 
my machine
I can’t run
I can’t hide
you’re inside of me
Rene ~ 2013
This poem is about that half asleep/ half awake dream state that I sometimes have.
It freaks me out royally.
I remember having it ( during a stressful time) for about a week.
I would have these vivid dreams of an old woman with no mouth pulling me out of my bed.
The dreams were so real and terrifying that I was afraid to go to sleep.
This was for 100 Word Song at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog.
The song pick this week is Poor Places by Wilco and is hosted by Didi @seablackwithink

St. Ninian’s Isle

map image via Magpie Tales

a way was made
land swept,
as if by hand,
then
scooped
and sucked into life
arching upward
eagerly knitting itself onto 

the mother bones


children crisscrossed
and dotted
the wild, new heaven
pressing would-be
treasures
into the earth
working their way east
tipping their maps

a wise man
built a white

house of shining stone
leaving the locks
off of the doors
he welcomed all guests,
in their mother tongues,
with arms full of leeks
and blessed all creatures,
great and small,
north of Hadrian’s Wall,
right where they stood

Rene ~ 2013

Ninian’s Umbrella

on a hill,
in the rain
Ninian read his bible
licking his finger
as he turned each page

sweet tea

Emeline,
being a resourceful human,
decided that the best way of exorcising
the demons of her past lovers
was to describe them using three adjectives

Using her calligraphy set,
a graduation gift from her uncle Ted,
She carefully wrote out each word
on a vellum note card
and tied them up
with a navy blue grosgrain ribbon

She poured herself
a glass of sweet tea
grabbed a box of tools
from under the kitchen sink
and set out into the evening shade of her backyard.
She slid her sandals on her feet
as she scuffed along
letting the screen door slam behind her

Macy, the neighbor’s beagle,
commenced to yapping
as soon as the screen door had fired its warning shot
and continued to keep up the racket
as Emeline strode across the yard.

Hush, Macy,
she said under her breath
She had every right to yap, Emeline thought,
if something rightly disturbed her.
That is why she did not scold her directly.

Emeline knelt down in the grass
and dug into her toolbox.
She pulled out a pair of scissors
and cut the ribbon on the stack of cards.
She scooped up a handful of tacks and
started sticking each despicable adjective
onto the fence that faced her kitchen window.
She laughed as she stuck up the word
flaccid,
it kept falling down

When all was organized,
with the fence looking like the most fucked up
version of the Wheel of Fortune that you
could ever imagine, it started to drizzle.
Emeline retired to her kitchen and enjoyed,
all by her lonesome, a glass of port.
And it was good
“Y’all can just hang out there in the rain all night!”
She cackled, leering at the shameful jumble of words
“But come tomorrow?
I’ma start throwing knives.”

Rene ~ 2013

alma

Image via Magpie Tales

Alma
she, the practical godmother 

of re purposed filled lives

did so, not out of
fad or fashion
or deep cosmic guilt

but rather frugality
borne out of
horse drawn necessity

with Alma
one was never allowed
to simply “be”

a spoon could not
just stir
a kettle had to do more than
just boil

one trick extravagances
had no business
in her business

for Alma
“just doing your bit”
was an unforgivable sin
and a grotesque waste
of limitless talent

she eschewed
the flock trotted superhighway
and blazed her own way
in inventive fashion

the future
sewn and soldered 
formed from 
whatever she had on hand
waiting to be reborn
and twisted 
drifting from the past

Rene ~ July 2013