Celebrate Your Weird and Wild

My totem is a silver skull, my spirit animal a murder of 13 crows (that enjoys playing jokes on storks and stealing shiny booty from magpies).

Black wings and shifty eyes delivered me (blood-clad and screaming) into my grandmother’s waiting hands. At nine-years-ancient, I knew my story to be uncanny… away from the sort of normal that feeds the world its myths and all the other perfect kids. “The storks didn’t fight back?”

The rumble in my grandmother’s laughter named her sister to thunder. Before she spoke, her smile flashed lightning. “Storks fear babies with teeth in the same way the idiotic fear women with brains.

When the world questions
your love for bones and feathers,
my girl, trust your strange—
celebrate your weird and wild,
feed on thunder and lightning.”

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– for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Celebration.

Not Enough

Use Your Tongue” was supposed to be tanka-prose. But I fell in pure lust with one (or 3) line-breaks, and had to write the piece as free verse. The poem below would’ve been the tanka part of it. I’m still thinking of linking the two at some point in some sort of almost tanka-prose, or in an experiment in free verse with tanka in it. Write and see, I guess…

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Not Enough

Hands are not enough
to hold my mind, use your words,
feed me cared for verbs—
my flesh will not thrive on grunts
while my soul is fed silence.
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– linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

“Gaijin Geisha”, by Shelle Kennedy

Shivers and Wants

She told us that “it may be time for some goodbyes—some important part of [our]selves may have to be left behind in 2017 or perhaps there is cause for a pruning of old, dead weight to make way for new growth and opportunities which lie ahead. Very few of us can say goodbye without regret or some measure of pain…” Kerry is quite correct, methinks. So, when she asked for poems that fed on these ideas, I wrote a tanka (inspired by a story I’m working on):
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“Shivers and Wants” 

When your voice is on my spine, logic becomes a storm of shivers and wants. But storms aren’t a good home for love. And lust feeds no one forever.

I’ll ready my heart
for winter, I’ll cleanse my mind—
thinking of you hurts.
My pen still scribbles your name,
but we’ll learn to write goodbye.

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– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Hedgewitch’s Friday 55, and Poets United.