We dance in flames lit by the rebellion mother. We dance in flames crying each of the fallen names. At life's breast, united, smother Fear - In support of each other we dance in flames
Mother Rebellion
Reply
Category Archives: Form
Singing Moon
At night when light is fast asleep the moon will weep. Its friend, the sun, just steals the fun. Don't cry dear moon, all will be fine - no need to pine, you'll feel the kiss of song and bliss. The sun will rise with tired eyes, to it's surprise the nights cold stings but moon now sings.
Floating Until Left
Plenty of fish in the sea Plenty of dead ones floating Floating lifelessly Floating endlessly Endlessly stuck in a cycle Endlessly bobbing along Along the cold surface Along the same lines Lines of the horizon Lines of a tourist's sight Sight for the sorest eyes Sight that fades away Away from memories Away from the aged Aged like rotting milk or Aged like wine Wine sat in a cellar Wine that's finely labelled Labelled as refined Labelled to raise the price Price too high to pay Price holds us back Back from all our dreams Back to the start Start to feel bitter Start to feel angry Angry at the system Angry at the man Man united in struggle Man up for the fight Fight for what you want Fight for that love Love of another Love of a connection Connection to their heart Connection severed so fast Fast to move out Fast to sell up Up the ante Up the stakes Stakes in the dating pool Stakes in the game Game of dating Game of swiping right Right to get a winner Right right left Left with the dead Left without anymore fish Dead Fish
Lover’s Home
Love - gentle and forthright, Begs me to come home.
Do not think after midnight
I gave the voices your tongue to hear their words in the voice of another. How differently I hate myself when the recital of criticism takes on a separate tone. The ex-plosives are missed as your snipes detonate in an uglier timbre. The richness of that trill is taken as an ever renewing esteem tithe, gradually depreciating my self-belief’s valuations so the bare bones can be given back to the earth cost free. Would the words you made me delete have made any difference? They’ll greet me when I finally give into the bitterness and momentarily regret all I hadn’t the chance to regret before.
Evening Oil Smudge
Drops of boiled beeswax poured into the lap of eventide fixed up the familiar face Soul syphoned as tax with lips forever widely untied yet draped in smatters of lace Bright acrylic lacs whispering old words that formed and dyed a novel paint palate case Dry anticlimax from feeble watercolor tears cried at night end's bitter disgrace Broken into scraps less than what it could and would provide more than all it could erase
Better Free
Locked behind bones wrapped in brocade an indelicate escape plea screaming inward for a reply. This bustle will surely outgrow the short lived modesty debut. One could claim you're on a crusade offending nobles in a spree until it's protests can outcry, overpower, your own deep woe - setting you down, trapping anew. Perhaps you'll set to work, or trade Or marry yourself a marquis. Resolve your fate with one more lie: he undressed you patiently slow then treats you as more than a screw
In Old Age
Porcelain filled with lavender tea sits delicately on the table. The old doily cloth matches your dress, were both inherited from mother? Remember how she would laugh so loud? Flower teased by a small bumble bee, please ignore it if you are able it will only sting if under stress. Remember that advice from brother? Bees have the temper of a storm cloud. "I'm glad that we still have each other" Oh how I wish you'd say this aloud
Humble Strings
Cry to me the tears of a violin, or scold me with the hum of a cello. When lost in the fears of this mortal skin, cry to me the tears of a violin to quell all the shouts that echo within. Should ego become my new bedfellow: cry to me the tears of a violin, or scold me with the hum of a cello.
Woman of Wear
Dangled cold toes under hot taps Weary bones that cry to collapse. With night she is blessed with peaceful request that she rest in it's traps. When awoken, as sun shines brightly, the rattled chest clenches tightly. Warmed by a shiver death doth order her: deliver politely.
The Poet Armistead 