Don’t Forget to Dance

“DO YOU hear voices?” he said. I was going to say something like, doesn’t everyone? Or, sure, but my inner-earmuffs are off today. Yesterday was tough. Then he said, “Write… about the voices you hear or the ones you used to; the voices which call or enthrall; the voices which yearn and those which burn.” I was tired, so I shook my head. But… somewhere, between my heart and the places where the dead we love live on, my little brother spoke. And I wrote…

“Don’t Forget to Dance”

his heart speaks loudest
when the crocus sleeps in ice.
don’t forget to dance
with me… for me, brujita
my heart will sing through your feet

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the wee notes…
– As the anniversary of my little brother’s death approaches, the voice of his memory in my heart gets louder and louder and louder…
Brujita means little witch, in Spanish.
– For the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Sunday Mini-Prompt with Brendan: Voices).


“Dance of Joy”
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Truth Turns Revenant

Stacie, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, asked us to write a poem based on a specific metaphor. I remembered a throne-like golden chair I saw in the news the other night, and I thought about how the hideously ostentatious image still made my eyes want to wretch. I focused on that particular bit. And, to celebrate the birthday of our dark, wild and slightly mad Edgar Allan Poe (Jan. 19, 1808 – Oct. 7, 1849), I took the feeling and Poe-tized it bloody.

“Truth Turns Revenant”

Smoke, blood and ashes
in his soul, out of his mouth
poison shines like gold.

When the truth turns revenant,
many hearts invite death’s teeth;
but some claw (and survive)
digging rot out of eyeballs,
seeing the poison in his shine.

See the poison in his shine.

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Linked to Prompt Nights (On Popular Demand – Glimpse into the world of Edgar Allan Poe).

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“Silent Heart”, by Billi Capman
(I chose this image, which doesn’t have all that much to do with the poem, because as the artist suggests, it shows “a hint of Edgar Allan Poe”, and today is all about the Poe-man).
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Before Skin Turns to Dust

They attend his masquerade with their words exposed… And he fails to see them.

He glances at the tanned honey that spreads between the sun and their bones, criticizes the plump layering their flesh, mocks the rolling of their Rs… And he’s sure he knows them.

I wonder… if he’ll ever understand that none can see a soul without reading into her days, without choosing to dance in his old hiking boots, without smiling through the clench of our broken teeth.

see the heart and bone
before they’re whitewashed by life,
and dreams turn to dust

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a
(not so) wee note…
– I wrote this poem almost two months ago, for Sanaa’s Prompt Nights. But didn’t post it then because it was too long to also link to a prompt at The Garden. So, I wrote a second poem. A few days after that, Rommy published “Faded, Not Forgotten”, and we were spooked (in a good way) by the similarities between the words we chose to express our ideas of masks. The motifs themselves were not such a big surprise, of course… I suspect that every person (with a beating heart and a thinking brain) is a tad worried (and thinking furiously) right now. And if the heart and brain in question happen to be of Hispanic descent, love children who aren’t White, are non-Christians, and so on… well, then the worrying gets even more complex.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Tuesday Platform).

“Behind the Mask of Words”, by Cassandra Black
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