Shadows and Rainbows

The season frolics through my words, and my soul shudders under sun-teased pleasures. I smile, delighting in the way my dark and my bright dance (free and bare) for all to read. Old Man Winter died screaming, but I don’t fret—Primavera kisses everything better.

limbs naked and spread,
awaiting spring’s blooming kiss,
dreaming of summer

Darkness and blood and thunder rip into my calm. Chaos cackles through walls of bone, chanting, “I slaughtered Tender and Quiet and fed their carcasses to Hel’s shadows. I’ve broken all your rainbows, my pet—no more brightness to brew thought.”

wild hearts are open
to pandemonium’s peace—
bring on the madness

In the beginning and before the end, I think (equally fine) in shadows and rainbows.

the wee notes…
Primavera is the Spanish word for spring.
– Hel (Norse Mythology) presides over a realm of the dead that shares her name.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Penultimatums: Voyages’ End (Almost), and to Poets United ~ Poetry Pantry 351.

The inspiration for the first haiku…

…and the heart of the last stanza.

She Became Pickaxe and Shovel

“The best moments in reading are when you come across something—a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things—which you had thought special and particular to you. Now here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out and taken yours.” ~ The History Boys, by Alan Bennett

“Don’t pity flesh or bone
that doesn’t have to breathe
pretty poisons,” she whispers.
“Wail for people too deaf
(self-damned or senseless)
to listen to their dead.”

“People do listen,”
I say, “they wear their dead’s tongues
on signs, on t-shirts.”

“Showing without doing
isn’t becoming,” she tells me.
“Read the tombstone.”

I open my mouth to read aloud,
but her finger is on my lips.

“Feel the words,” she says,
taking my hand, guiding it
over the epitaph.
Through feel, I listen:

When conflict threatened
to take root in her soil,
she became
pickaxe and shovel.

“Become,” I say.

the wee notes…
–  Linked to Friday Fictioneers. Visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog, to enjoy interesting tales. Then follow this LINK, to read what others have read (and felt) on the tombstone.
– Also, linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. Karin asked us to write poetry inspired by “Outsider Art”. Since I am my favorite outsider artist (I’m also very modest *cough*), I chose to pair Friday Fictioneers tombstones with one of my blackouts.

photo by Liz Young

You Will Rot

“Self-love is so important. Because when you’re all alone and it’s 3 in the morning and you’re lying on the floor crying and shaking and wishing it all would end, who’s going to be there for you? You. You have to pick yourself up and find the strength to carry on. At the end of the day, you’re all you’ve got.” ~ via All Women’s Talk

was once a goddess
killed by man.
I reclaimed her might
back to life, for me.

You want me
meek, shushed at your feet?
Dumb man-child,
your dream will not be—
my tongue whips silence.

The right words
demolish dogma,
defeat lies.
Hear my wild heart roar
change, and be reborn.

“Selfish!” you
shout, and I laugh, laugh—
I love me.

You (your shouts) and your insecurities will rot before I change my Self.

a wee note…
– Linked to Protest and Outrage: Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month, and to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform.

Frida Kahlo and Chavela Vargas
via Pinterest