Roses and Rot

I think you not
stupid, my dear one.
But I watch your passion
consuming your brain’s guts,

and I see me
worried for us. Do try to see,

bit of my heart,
your passion confuses
rot with roses. And I wail
for our garden’s rotting blooms.

the wee notes…

– “Because it is in my heart”, Kerry told us, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. Fine, so the words were first said by a “naked, bestial” creature with rather interesting appetites. But that’s all right, since Kerry is only using the phrase as reference. She wants us to write poems, in 10 lines or fewer, while keeping the quote in mind. Said quote comes from The Black Riders and Other Lines, by Stephen Crane.
– Linking to Poets United (Poetry Pantry #313).

Skull and Rosesvia

Shooting People at a Mad Dream Wedding

She saw herself through a foggy camera lens. She was young and naked, sitting on a wooden pew, surrounded by people wearing formal attire.

“You think the marriage will last?” an old woman said to her.

“I doubt it, ma’am,” answered the phantom voice of a young-sounding guy.

“This is a robbery!” yelled a priest, who stood on a white altar, holding a white gun to a limp woman’s temple. “Move an inch and, by god, I’ll shoot the bride’s head off.”

She jumped to her feet and covered her mouth with her hands.


She sat down too fast, and landed on a rocking chair in a small kitchen, staring at the old woman who was now crawling into a woodstove.

“I hope the reception is better. The ceremony sucked. I hate weddings,” the old woman whispered. “Close the door, dear, it’s not getting hot in here.”


“Hold on to me, babe,” the blond guy said, flashing a grin full of silver teeth. “I have drinks and an edible cake topper.”

“I don’t think the priests can shoot, sir,” said a guy, stripping out of a camouflaged uniform and picking up a yellow toy gun.


“Is he letting you out?” the blond guy said to the old woman.

“Yes.” The old woman changed positions in the woodstove. “I need to go to the post office. He knows it’s important. Fairy tale ovens are heavy, but woodstoves are really bolted to the floor.”

“Here,” said the blond guy, handing the old lady three dollar bills.

She grabbed them through the woodstove’s glass.


“Can you believe that priest? To think I wanted him to marry me.” The blond guy tsked.

She looked away from him and closed her eyes. She opened them back at the church, leaning against an orange glass door.

“Drop the gun, Father! Everybody can see the bride is already dead, and I know you’re drunk. Don’t make me shoot you,” a police officer shouted from inside the confessional booth. He aimed a crossbow at the priest; the tip of his arrow was on fire.

The blond guy nudged her. “I wrote a coded message on the three dollar bills. Robin Hood should confess his good deeds and light up the party.”

“Look at me! Look at me!” someone yelled.

She turned towards the shrilly voice. It was the young-sounding guy doing cartwheels in nothing but dingy tighty-whities. He came to a halt in front of her, spread his arms and bowed. He wore a thick layer of bright teal eye shadow around his left eye. His yellow toy gun was affixed to his chest with duct tape.


She was naked in bed, shaking away remnants of hot sleep. Someone knocked on the door, saying something about trying on sexy wedding dresses and how Hansel and Gretel really sucked.

the wee notes…
– Linked to Sanaa’s Prompt Nights – In dreams we enter a world that’s entirely our own. “Dreams. We all have them. We strive for something which at first we deem impossible. But as they say, the key to realizing a dream is to focus on its significance, cause then even our smallest steps and victories will take on a greater meaning.” I read Sanaa’s words and the tale above—which is a dream I had in 2014—and I wonder, what does it mean? The “dingy tighty-whities” disturb me a bit… and disgust me a lot, lol! But seriously, my Wicked Luvs, dreams are such marvelous things. And writing them as they are (or as we remember them) is just as wondrous to me.
– After rereading this story, and remembering my colored and poetized Tim Burton’s Cheshire Cat, I’m starting to wonder if I have something for silvery grins. I wonder, wonder, wonder…

In Dreams, by okmarzo“In Dreams”, by okmarzo

Stigma Should Be the Only Disease that Brings Shame to Anyone Spreading It

A person who shames you because you are sick deserves neither your respect nor a place in your life. That’s what I said to a young woman who I met via a Crohn’s Disease group. She messaged me to ask for advice on how to deal with friends who “hurt [her] feelings, when they said they couldn’t understand “how [she] talks to other people about Crohn’s without dying of shame.”

Crohn’s Disease isn’t an illness that can be kept secret (or camouflaged) from people one spends a lot of time with, especially during flare-ups. I’m not just talking about symptoms like stomach pain, or having to poop too many times, or going days without being able to poop, or needing to poop but wishing you didn’t have to because it hurts so damn much. Yes, my Wicked Luvs, I know I just typed the word “poop” 3 times in the same paragraph. I did it because poop (make that 5) is one of the things many of us must get really comfortable with in order to live with Crohn’s.

I’m not suggesting that we must tell everyone everything about our toilet habits. However, we need people in our lives to whom we can safely say, “I can’t leave the house today because my butt’s on fire. But I’m not in too much pain, so we can hang out if you come over.”

Living with an illness should never be a cause for embarrassment. The stigma certain individuals and society as a whole have attached to some illnesses and disabilities (or to anything that implies a person doesn’t fit the box they’ve labelled normal) is the real disgrace. If you ask me, stigma should be the only disease that brings shame to those spreading it.

So I say to that young lady, and to anyone living with an illness, surround yourself with people who have hearts and brains big enough to understand that your disease isn’t you, but being chronically ill is a rather important part of who you are. They need to know that they will never be able to be a true friend to you, if they can’t accept (and try to understand) all of the parts that have crafted you—including the not so healthy bits… perhaps, especially the not so healthy bits.

What say you, my Luvs?

“If You Love”

If you love
me, others, yourself…

you’ll know why I grow
my sun in a pot. You’ll see
why the heart of my garden
is a rainbow. You’ll feel
wings that sprout
out of rooted life that will
always be able to fly.

If you love
me, others, yourself…

If You Love, by Magaly Guerreroa paged from Johanna Basford’s
Secret Garden: an Inky Treasure Hunt and Coloring Book
colored and poetized by moi