….why paisley???

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

seeing as how i have a built in aversion to anything sci-fi,, i had to take the prompt for read write poem in a bit of a different direction this week…..

twas me mother who told it
and she wouldn’t lie
she would rather cut out
her heart - or an eye
than spread the non truth
and so i decree
i me-self,, am the spawn
of the screamin’ banshee!!!

as me sweet mother told it
twas a quiet,, dark night
the candles was lit
and the fire was bright
they was havin’ a sip
of the irish whiskey,
when outta the mist
come the screamin’ banshee!

they heard her a comin’
but no one did run
as they was tippin’ a bit
and havin’ great fun
and no one was about to
abandon the bottle
yet there she was-
comin’ at ‘em full throttle!!!!

the menfolk they coward
behind the women’s full skirts
not a brass ball among ‘em
the no good irish flirts
and as she approached
it became clear to see
she had a wee babe in her arms…
and that wee babe was me!!!!

“quit your whinin’ ye wankers
you’ve nothin’ to fear
i am here to give, and not take
you got lucky this year!
i can’t find a sitter
me old mans on a drunk
and there’s no one to mind
this, my wee little punk!!”

then she handed me off
and she fled into the wood
not screamin’ at all
rather laughin’,, but good!!!
they stood there all quite
each not quite believin’
the rare piece of luck
they’d been blessed with this ev’nin

that luck gave out quick
it went straight to ye midden
as they lifted the blanket
to see what they’d been given
twas the face of an angel
all pink skinned and red haired
” a little piece of irish heaven!!”
me auntie rosie declared…

and just at that moment
for no reason at all
me face wrinkled up
and i started to bawl
and let out a scream
heard from here to the sea
and erased any doubt
as me own sweet mother will tell ye-

that i am the spawn of the screamin’ banshee!!

photo:

http://plim-chan.deviantart.com/art/The-scream-64789938

this is a combination of the photo provided by monday mural on poefusion,, and the prompt “vinegar and oil” by read write poem… the prompt suggested we mix two things together that really don’t belong,, but in some way can share a common thread…

i used a snipped of a draft poem i wrote when i was in the deepest depths of depression,, and blended it with my clearest childhood memory,, as recorded in an earlier post called inner child…. a piece of prose that involves recalling childhood innocence…..

**********

where has the child gone..
the one who used to be,,
inside my mind,,
inside my heart,,
content not to be free??

jodi ~circa 1976

watercolor by leontine may

i spend way too much time
in the front yard
of my childhood home
thinking about dying..
never thought i would feel
so used up
in my white briefs,,
and no shirt..
so empty so old
so bitter so cold
most days i think, that
i’ve just had enough..
running around in circles
in the early morning grass
still wet with dew…

feeling shameful and yet
somehow- invigorated
i can’t remember my dreams
if i ever had them
life offers nothing
being outside with no shirt
in my underpants,,,
i haven’t already had
in full view,,
but seen by no one..
had it good had it bad
been happy been sad
no regrets
i just feel done..
running around in circles
in the early morning grass
still wet with dew…

courtesy of: read write poem

every family’s got one
of that you can be sure,,
the old,, eccentric, maiden aunt..
you don’t know much about her
except that she’s
a bit of a strange old bird
and in my family
i must admit,,
i think i’m her

you know the one with
no husband and no children?
doesn’t date
hardly ever leaves the house-
writes poetry
sleeps with dogs
doesn’t keep herself up….
yep,, thats me
how’d this ever come about?

i used to be the wild one
the free spirit..
the one they
voted most likely
to end up dead.
the one who called
screaming from jail
in the middle of the night,
and disappeared
for years at a time…

the one that was
forever moving
with no real
place to call home.
the one that was always
on some guy or another’s arm.
the one who spent her days
doing drugs
in the company of fools,,
cause she was scared to death
of ever being left alone…

but now i just sit here
alone in my canyon,
with two hairy beasts,
asleep, in my bed.
writing poetry by day,
and dreaming by night,
of a handsome prince
that will never know
that i, was meant to be
his maiden fair….

photo:

http://laletizia.deviantart.com/art/The-Victorian-Lady-63696193

this is something a few of you may have already seen,, but when the prompt this week on read write poem called for poetry made up of snippets of conversation,, i knew i had to bring it out of the archives and post it here for you today….

“hes as twisted as his pretzels..
the bakers awful son.”
“it’s a wonder he ever makes a cent
after all he’s said and done.”

“he will charge you top crust dollar
for the goods of yesterday.”
“he’d sell the same wares all week long
if he could have his way.”

“..and his fathers such a sweet man
all old and bent and blind
but a full days work he’ll still put in
as his name is on the sign…”

“he mustn’t have an inkling
about his twisted awful son..”
“or else he doesn’t want to know
what we know about that one…”

“hes been sullied with the seamstress.”
“he’s meddled with our maid!”
“see, he’s winking at the bar wench…
bet she’ll meet him in the shade…”

“or back in some dank ally”
“or hall thats never used…”
“he’ll add her surely to his list
of ladies that he’s used…”

“and that would be the one thing
if he just had his way
but no hes got to herald it out
to his bar mates every day…”

“then the men come home
and tell their wives the stories that he told
and thats the reason none us,
buy his twisted bread.. as surely its day old!”

photo:
http://www.explorepahistory.com/images/ExplorePAHistory-a0b0g0-a_349.jpg

as many of you know, i live in a more or less rural, isolated coastal area… a very aesthetically beautiful area,, that lays claim to much entitlement,, fosters much creativity,, and yet sadly,, is inbred with an uncommonly high suicide rate… this is my song to the seductive mistress suicide that seems to sleep in our little bedroom communities….

silence
n’er her strong point
sweet purveyor of life’s lies
she speaks
with succored sweetness
sulking, sullen hollow eyes

sipping lives
thru slender straws
salivating sweet repose
she recedes
yet seldom sleeps
unholy harvester of souls

simmering
with self loathing
suckling life’s most tender core
dispensing soothing
pseudo sympathies
till she can sleep no more…

photo:

http://fc01.deviantart.com/fs14/f/2007/110/a/8/The_Suicide_by_temporary_peace.jpg

this is a combination of the prompts from poefusions: friday five, and read write poems: like deja vu all over again , as well as the form featured on read write poem called a pantoum…..
the words from friday 5: string, mural, kempt, dilated, vinegar

labyrinth: an intricate combination of paths or passages in which it is difficult to find one’s way or to reach the exit.

caught inside the labyrinth,
he has learned to call his home.
he sleeps under the hyacinth,
on a mattress made of loam.

he has learned to call his home,
this tangled cement string.
on a mattress made of loam
he lies, and hears his mother sing.

on this tangled cement string,
he paints the mural of his life.
he lies and hears his mother sing,
and dreams he’s dancing with his wife.

he paints the mural of his life,
in vinegar, piss, and wine.
and dreams he’s dancing with his wife.
on gold paved streets- her living shrine

in vinegar, piss, and wine
he sways, unkempt for all to see
on gold paved streets, her living shrine
he dances once more with his marie.

he sways unkempt for all to see,
through the labyrinth of his dreams.
he dances once more, with his marie,
and once more the banshee screams.

through the labyrinth of his dreams,
he weeps, thru dilated blood shot eyes.
and once more the banshee screams.
as his beloved marie dies….

photo:

http://fc02.deviantart.com/fs5/i/2004/304/2/f/Slow_Dance_by_worldasleep.jpg

this weeks friday five words are: inflicted, agitation, scud, crow, margin

the prompt this week from read write poem is “storm front moving in…”

perched upon this parapet
this mortuary mine
i weep poseidon’s saline tears
‘neath somber scudding sky

as moisture inundated clouds
exhale, sedna’s
plankton perfumed breath
and agitated artic gales
pass o’re her frozen lips

left anchored in abandon
aloft, this landlocked
margin of death
inflicted fallen fortress
turned, skeletal
black crows nest

photo:

http://misaje.deviantart.com/art/Lost-in-the-Storm-70183744

The prompt for this week from readwritepoem, is to incorporate mathematics into a poem. i decided to go with a form called a cadae. it is based on the numbers that make up “Pi”, which represents the ratio of any circle’s circumference to its diameter… Here is the formula of Pi,, i only used the first 42 numbers….

3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197169399375105820974944592

olive tree

“A woman
is
like an olive
tree.
“When its branch catches
woodworm, it has to be chopped off {this
is} so
that society stays
clean and pure.”
quoted from
the Quran, basis for
“honor killings”… turkey, jordan
pakistan and palestine, muslim men
“protecting family honor”
can murder, their wives, sisters, mothers,
daughters, for
simply
refusing
to wear a “hijab”, or headscarf
having a non-
muslim boyfriend, or male
friend of
any origin. seeking
education,
employment.
worst of all
attempting to assimilate
to western
culture.
globally an average of
5000 women per year, murdered.
in the name of “allah”
0
i am
sickened, repulsed, appalled, angered
this form of god sanctioned murder
must come to an
end.
how can we as a world, stand by
and watch ritualistic
death
like just desert????

read more: Crimes against honour, crimes against love

inspiration provided by rethabile, in his post, stars of stone, featuring the work of,

Rustum Kozain, This Carting Life (Kwela/Snailpress, 2005)

photo:

http://carcassbloodycarcass.deviantart.com/art/Can-t-Speak-Won-t-Speak-75042309

rising from your pores
a sickening, syrupy, sweetness,
that beguiles some poor
unknowing souls into belief.

once you have them reeled,
and begun your frenzied feed,
no amount of sugar,, real
or imagined,, can cloak your acerbic deceit.

for those of us that know,,
who have seen you froth and spit,
your allure, succor tho it may be, remains no
match for the bitter brine that is your core…

http://bestservedcold.deviantart.com/art/backstabber-34239995