In My Circus

Ginger and Citrus Leaf Teamaking ginger and blood orange leaf tea for my cranky tummy

I want tea to be coffee,
and ginger chocolate beans.
I wish for life to be a circus
tent, where nothing goes hungry
or sick or dead or extinct…

In my circus, I’m a mad cat
with a crimsonly chic hat
and a silvery grin
slightly cracked.

Fresh coffee flowers brew wild
in my circus, that’s a garden
in a kettle. I take my blooms
everywhere, and spread them slyly
on tables on pianos and saloons.

I want
tea to be coffee.
I wish
for Wonder to be free
Land.

You?

.
the wee notes…
– Today Vanessa Valencia celebrates her 9th annual Mad Tea Party. And because I’m hosting over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, I invited the prompts to dance together. I chose to pair (actually trio) the Mad Tea Party theme with Words Count with Mama Zen (Is your life a circus?) and Rommy Drik’s The Way of Tea, specifically this quote: “Once a flower’s season has passed, it should not be brought in from another location for display in the tearoom.” Yes, Rommy, I’m a tea brewing rebel. Muahahahaha! *cough, cough, better get more ginger, cough*
– Do fly over to The Garden and to A Fanciful Twist to see what everyone else is brewing.
– So… if your life was a circus, what would your tent look like? I wonder, wonder, wonder…

Tim Burton’s Cheshire CatTim Burton’s Cheshire Cat
colored by moi
snatched from Print the World: Super Coloring

A Flame in the Dark

The knowing dances into me, gritty and wild, through open eyes and willing tongue. I taste the veracity shards you hide under a shroud of silken lies. Something is rotten. For a spell, my eyes consider weeping for the worms you boiled before they could become moths. Then I remember: liquid mourning cleanses, but rarely fixes a thing. So my soul sucks in sadden salts, crafts them into living fuel, lets them burn for a better day. I don’t conceal what grows in me. I open my all, under the licks of moon and sun, and let you watch. You see naught.

a flame, in the dark,
breeding eternal summers,
rebirthing new hope

.
the wee notes…
– Silk is harvested by boiling the silkworm cocoon, or by blasting it with steam or hot air.
– Linked to Sanaa’s Prompt Nights (The Hidden Realm). Sanaa said that our contributions could refer to “a sanctuary or a safe haven where we like to retreat to when times are tough… to pen down the first thing that comes to mind when thinking about a hidden realm.” The first thing that came to my mind spoke of the inner not-so-hidden realms some of us must bring into being, in order to keep our sanity in today’s reality.

Black Candle Flame

You Can’t Help Grown People Who Won’t Help Themselves

Everybody has (or knows) one: a friend or family member who refuses to help himself, but who tries as hard as he can to make others feel guilty for his troubles. I’ve no patience for this kind of individual. And when his parasitic behavior starts negatively affecting the life of someone I care about, I just want to scream and scream and scream… until the shrieking force of my will drills some sense into his mind, or at least until his skull cracks a little and most of his teeth fall out.

I’m a championess at the art of denying people of this sort the opportunity to affect me directly. But sometimes, seeing what they do to others is nearly as infuriating. And all I can do is watch… as the leech sucks the life out of a decent human being who deserves much better.

This is my bit of venting for the day. I would like to say for the week, but lies and I don’t see eye to eye. I have to get ready for another hospital visit, but I think I’ll write something dark before I go… maybe something that contains a healthy dose of cracked skulls and gut-felt shrieking.

.
Blooming Howlsdetail from “Blooming Howls”, by Gina Morley
inspired by my short story collection of the same name

Under My Thorns

My skin is made of sentient thorns,
coated with well lived words
and a patch of forget-me-nots,
which shields all that grows
in the chambers of my heart.

Once upon three forevers ago,
while my hips were lines
and my chest was too new to feed
anyone but me, I believed

my forget-me-nots were too dear,
too costly for me to afford a blooming coat
that could cover me from thought to step—

then and now, I’ve been wrong
so many times. The flowers do cost,
but deep-deep-deep, under my thorns,
forget-me-nots grow wild and free.

Where only I (and my chosen) can feel,
thorn turns to petal, love rules the field.
Outside, where hate often licks unseen,
my thorns are ready to impale its tongue,
to deny its rotting kiss.

.
a wee note…
The last few days have been emotionally charged to the brim. The horrors that touched France are rippling through the feeling world, making anyone (with a brain and heart) rage and mourn. I tend to cope with most of my raging and mourning, by morphing them into words. So I was thankful when Sanaa, over at Prompt Nights, asked for poetry that reminded us that “Hate’s a parasite that rots the Soul”. And at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Karin is “In the Market for Poems” that make us “Consider some kind of bargain, exchange, purchase, promise.” I’m also linking this piece to Poets United (Poetry Pantry #311).

.
Frankenstein and Forget-Me-Nots, by Winter Moon“Frankenstein and Forget-Me-Nots”, by Winter Moon Vintage
(You can find this art print and much more on her Society6 shop. And if you delight in her work as much as I do, you might also want to follow her blog).