Making Bright Out of Shadows

In darkness, away from leaf-song and rain-scented soil, hearts wilt and die. In the light, where words speak halved thoughts and poetry kisses riddles, stories will die. I hear it. I think it… Then, that something that binds us (do you know what it is?), that thing made of mud, daydreams and wild bits of you and me, fills my bones with chants of Maybe… and I know better—stories only die if you let them and hearts always live if we read.

Making bright
out of the shadows,
the soul smiles…
while I remember
the power of ink.

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the (not so) wee notes…
– Last Sunday, I wasn’t having the best of days. I was feeling a bit gloomy, out of sorts… So, I put on my super-power skirt (everybody should have something—in their closet, bookcase, wallet…—that instantly fills them with good memories. I wore the skirt in question, for the first time, during a dance while I was a junior in high school, the same night I figured out that life was freaking weird, but since I was weird, too, then life was yummy). Anyhoo, I put on brown combat boots and my super-power skirt and a dear friend and I went thrifting. The thrift shop was closed when we got there, so we laughed a tad madly, went to the grocery store and bought two pies (I got peach!), and life was yummy. When I saw this rather dark picture (below), taken on the bus on our way back from pie shopping, I noticed how my smile shines through the gloom (I have super-power teeth, too), and I thought, Yep, life is yummy and then some.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform.

My Sweet Night-Mare

Living is ink and want and him… a stitched story that has never been, a knowing smile that leaves logic and metaphors ashamed of being as unreal as words never felt. We kiss in books, on grass, in libraries, in crafted dreams… full of romances written with sharp teeth and (once upon a lie) sharper truths.

Scribble me
yours, for 13 whiles.
I will be
monster and hero,
for your tale in me.

Living is ink and want and her… She reads me real in her sleep, names me sweet Night-Mare, drinker of reason, all hers, in the wicked pools of our dark.

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the wee notes…
– In myth, Mares are terrible creatures, bringers of nightmares that drive dreamers insane with terror. The succubus and incubus (female and male spirits that seduce dreamers) sound a lot like mares, don’t they? In this bit of tanka-prose, I wanted to explore what might happen if a mare and the librarian (obviously) he meant to torment end up finding common ground.
– Written for the Beautiful Freaks Fest 2017, and for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Literary Excursions with Kerry ~ Metafiction.
– If you haven’t entered my stitched poetry giveaway, follow the link to do so… commenting on this poem gives you 1 entry, if you’ve entered the giveaway.

 

Must Love Freaks

She says that I was born with luck sitting on my hand and charm dancing on the tip of my tongue. “People love you,” she tells me, “they want that… something shining out of you.”

I smile at her, all magic and creepy teeth, wondering if she ever kisses her mirror.

You must love
freakishly wild things
to love me,
caress chaos’ soul
and moan for balance.
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a wee note…
– Someone told me that she “hated being so weird”, that she wished she was “normal and cool like [me]”, so that people would like her as much as they seemed to like me. No, my Wicked Luvs, I did not laugh hysterically at the thought of anyone thinking me “normal” (I was not offended, either). But I did wonder if the someone in question ever realized that a person who doesn’t like herself will have a rather difficult time getting others to like her.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform. Kerry asked us to link a song to our poem, and I’m linking the song that inspired me to wear my weird as a fiery flag: “Pelo Suelto”, by Gloria Trevi. You can watch the video HERE, and read my translation of the Spanish lyrics HERE.

The socks are a birthday gift from Rommy, and Wicked Green (the frog) is a gift from some of “the coolest old-ass fighters” (their words, not mine) the military has ever produced.