….why paisley???

the honey moon
is peering at me
thru the window.
she is looking at me
intently
with both her eyes.
one is bright and real,
and i have to share it.
the other lags behind-
shes just mine.
it is the middle of the night,
everyone is sleeping.
‘cept me, myself,
the honey moon,
her shadow
and i…
she is ringing in the solstice-
her sister sun’s
last big hurrah..
and i am ringing in
the perfection
of the night….

the world is quite a place
when no one is in it.
no oil prices,
no warming trends,
no shattered lives..
when it is just me
all alone,
with the voices
in my head,
and the honey moon
hovering silently
at my side..
being alone,, for some reason
feels so different.
as i inhale
the somber silence
just past midnight.
what a glorious
place to be alone,,
but never lonely.
just me, myself,
the honey moon,
her shadow
and i…

photo:

http://blue-peony.deviantart.com/art/Shadow-of-the-Moon-77799694

our lady of perpetual sorrow
is sponsoring,
an ice cream social..
worker bees,
dressed in stiffly
starched,, yet ancient
thread bare
light pink smocks,,
members of
the womens axillary
(better known as
the old ladies
of the rosary club)
over see
the days events.
tongues drawn to gossip
like tacky fly paper
which spreads like fire,
alarmingly punctuated
by self righteous “humphs”
veiled ever so lightly in
the sign of the cross..

whilst their husbands,
who were left at home
in day old boxer shorts,
channel surf past
honey do lists
ceremoniously avoiding
mop and broom,
by entertaining visions
of dusky women
in dank motel rooms,
over long cold
cups of coffee,
traded in for beer
well before noon..
till the dryer sounds
(oh,, beeper from hell!!)
and reality sets in…

photo:
http://cherubb.deviantart.com/art/watching-TV-63336128

linda on simply snickers posted the following photo as part of her weekly poetry prompt,, and although i have not written anything new to accompany it,, nor does it incorporate the words that she made available this week i though i would drag this little story out of the archives of just paisley…. for those of you that have never seen it before…

Le Dejeuner des Canotiers
(The Luncheon of the Boating Party)
by Pierre-Auguste Renoir

twas the same semblance of the parsonage every sunday.. had it not been for the antics of the crenolyn sisters,, i fear,, it would have resulted in a ghastly bore…

week after week we assembled,, more out of circumstance than actual desire,, the luncheon spread,, the wine poured and the conversations quiet and conservative…

that is until the dishes began to be cleared,, and the wine continued to pour…

it was just such a sunday,, quite a while back,, you know,, i cannot reveal exactly how far back as that might give you some circumference with with to determine my age,, and as you know,, a lady never reveals her age… but none the less….

it was just such a sunday we were gathered,, at le gare,, there on the great rivers edge.. there was,, as i have stated the usual bunch,, the vespers and the creatons.. the angliers and the renaults.. and then of course the crenolyn sisters,, merced and ann marie,, surrounded as usual,, by a myriad of local men from about the parish,, young and old,, shy and randy,, each of them, insisting on wine,, more wine,, and yet more wine,, until it was evident the sisters had become pliable enough,,, and it was then my friend,, yes it was precisely then that the fun i am referring to would begin….

the sisters would inevitably have been spreading about the glimmer of hope that they either singularly or as a duo,, would make themselves available for dancing,, and one never could be sure how much more,, and just about the time the four piece would arrive,, alas,, the tumult would begin…

the men young and old,, you will notice i have not used the term gentleman,, as i doubt there was one in the bunch,, would salivate around them,, pecking and pawing,, scratching like a great crew of game cocks preparing to spar over the two available hens… inevitably,, amidst the wine,, and the merriment,, and the prospect of a song,, the sunday best would come off,, the chests would puff up,, the strutting would begin,, the tempers would flare,, and the arguments and physicality would indeed take hold…..

it was then,, in the spirit of keeping the peace that lord vespers would take it upon himself to call for a lorry,, and as the raucous ensued,, he would personally usher the sisters,, agape and aghast that their feminine mystique had yet again uprooted such a angst ridden rivalry among the men folk,, and off they would be carried,, back home,, alone.. all the drunker and none the wiser to sleep it off yet again in the arms of no one,, lest you count each other,, which is exactly what those of us in the know chose then,, and still all these years later,, choose to believe……

pity isn’t it… neither of them ever did marry.. still together,, the two of them,, as far as i know….

“something inside me is energy,, and it was not created,, so it cannot be destroyed….” from the girls by lori lansens

we stood in front
of my childhood closet
fighting about
the course that i was on
she was positive i would
never make it
into the kingdom of her god
and to tell you the truth
to this day,,
i am ever thankful
i will not..

“i will never die!!”
i remember yelling at her,,
knowing full well
that my physical body
would someday expire..
but i knew then
with the clarity
of an epiphany,
that the force
that i called “i”
would never die,,
but just move on..

to date,,
i have received
no further revelation.
no moments of insight,
no visions in the night..
yet, each time, that i recall
that single apparition
of teenage clarity,,
it rings with a truth
i have never found
in any god…

photo:

http://shadyxxlurker.deviantart.com/art/Closet-of-Black-77537103

let your tears come
let them water your soul
by eileen mahew

let your tears by: rick mobbs

let your tears come,
let them water your soul
let them mix with the ash
of passions fire, grown cold

let them brighten the bruises
let their salt sting the scars
let them fill your lifes palette
let them color your art

let them mix with your blood
and your hurt and your fear-
then paint me a picture
i can see, feel, and hear….

dizzy plays for small change, on the boardwalk in key west
livin’ rough and drinkin’ hard,, sometimes he plays just to forget
the night the misplaced cherry, from his days last cigarette
cursed him to live,, out all his days,, in charcoal silhouette….

photo:

http://mindseye171.deviantart.com/art/My-Own-Little-Square-57667418

just a little piece of flash (100 words… no more no less…) i pulled over from the ink pot.. some of you may have seen it before,, but i am hoping there are a good many of you who have not… i need a night off… be back tomorrow with something new…..

she had developed a penchant for availing herself to men that would introduce utter chaos into her ordinarily uneventful life.

as if on cue, each time she felt the chaotic life they had created, spiraling out of control, her thoughts would become eschewed and she would find herself frantically searching for a way out.. fight or flight.. up until today,, she had always chosen flight..

why on earth she had chosen today she was unsure, but that mattered very little… at this moment,, she had more important things to think about… like what she planned on doing with the body….

photo:

http://myseventhlife.deviantart.com/art/Body-64311695

staccato lines
of separation.
a duet sung
in broken tongues.
your long dried reed.
my unstrung instrument.
un intermezzo
played out of time..

movements plucked
via pizzicato,
staves comprised
of crooked lines.
my solo voice
an intoned requiem.
your obbligato
nocturne, sublime..

pages torn
from il libretto.
silence broken
with each reprise.
internal melodies
defy translation.
lyrical rhythms
untouched by time…

photo:

http://www.civilization.ca/arts/opus/images/opus502.jpg

the line: ” a duet sung in broken tongues” was borrowed from cynthia at Epiphany: Amour Habito Intus Vos, in her poemflesh 28

definitions to the musical terminology used herein can be found at: classical works.com

the only way, that no one would have recalled seeing the little boy, with the bloody nose, sitting alone, in the cart, outside the public restroom, at the busy farmers market,, (where she unceasingly alleged that she had “stepped in for just a second,, just a second,, that is all it could have been,, just long enough to grab some dry paper towels and dampen a cool compress for his head…”) was if,, he was never really there….

they had found his blood under her fingernails.. on her tee shirt.. and embedded in the dirt on the bottom of her shoes.. they had found outstanding arrest warrants,, in three states.. they had found previous convictions on drug and prostitution charges.. all of which were scattered over a ten year period… fifteen years ago…. but what they never found,, was her boy…

like a torn page from the front of a tabloid,, she instantly became today’s top story.. they dissected her childhood,, in intimate detail.. they resurrected a most distasteful history of physical and sexual abuse.. they scrutinized her subsequent descent into the slick underbelly of prostitution and drug addiction.. they stripped her naked,, and paraded her thru the living room of america,,, three. times. a day…

so convinced,, were they,, that she had killed him,, that they never even looked, for her boy.. instead,, they formed huge morally outraged search parties who combed the fields,, the woods,, the warehouses… for his body… (and loudly protested her sentence of life without parole,, as passed down by the court,, with righteously indignant cries of “an eye for an eye!!!”) but no one, ever even looked,, for her boy…

and had he not freed himself from the wreckage of the old root cellar,, beneath the tornado damaged farmhouse,, not two miles away, from the site of the old farmers market,, (some five years after she exhaled her last,, at the wrong end of a knotted bed sheet, in her solitary prison cell…) no one,, would ever have found,, her boy….

photo:
http://lucillle.deviantart.com/art/Lost-77734807

rhetorical “i love yous”-
batted back and forth like flies,
that prey on hungry children
and drink water from their eyes..

caustic conversations, peppered
black,, with loathings mold.
while laser whitened smiles
veneer loveless, rotting souls..

a marriage of convenience,
fed on debt devoured dreams.
youthful passions, long succumbed,,
to god money’s siren screams…

credit cards ,and joint accounts,
the flesh on which they feed.
a living breathing sacrifice,,
to avarice and greed…

photo:
http://trygothic.deviantart.com/art/Love-Vs-Money-71053505