Folds


I often draw in the dirt roads
to where my thoughts should go,
diverting from the same-old, ink-lined,
well-worn map

recalculating, recalculating

but lately,
I’ve just been stuck in the folds

-image via Pixabay

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Weary Bones, a Quadrille 

I hear my weary bones a’creaking,
 the slap-flapping of valves
   working overtime,
     ‘cuz they’re leaking

I feel the slowing tempo
 of waves receding,
   the acquiescence
     of my spirit weeping

I hear my weary bones a’creaking,
 but I can’t give in –

my soul’s still seeking

-image via Tumblr, source unknown; written as part of dVerse Poet Pub’s Quadrille prompt

Malice


time was the cold, bone-crunching cement 
beneath her feet;
each ticking minute cruel,
and every passing hour punishing 

for, all around her, 
in every moment of awareness, 
were time’s stealthy hands

without warning, they would grip her,
wringing her out in fiery fists,
an icy vacancy on its ceaseless face 
as they squeezed and knotted,
yet, allowed her to live

it occurred to her each time –

what great malice there can be,
in allowing something to live

-image credit Brooke Shaden; included as part of Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie photo challenge 191

Storm’s Eye

oh, divine, insidious pull
help me please, my soul is full

my shallow roots are tattered and splintered
my tired heart has been battered and wintered

your cradled strings strangely unbind me
and your wistful cloud holds some mystical key

I’ve try to stay grounded, but the din is too heady
I’m already rising, I think I’m ready

into storm’s eye, allow me to fly
will it unwind me?
I’m willing to try

do I get to return?
or should I say goodbye?

*written as part of Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Photo Challenge 104