For war, Word or ward Odor of war Draw forward. Do for war A wood arrow draw Or wood oar Draw forward. Word of war Roar raw ward Offroad or radar Draw forward.
From an Ampersand Poetry & Prompts Anagrammatical Prompt. Check out the Ampersand Site Here
Chipped polish on keratin Formed instruments of misery Against the carved ivory candlestick, But played in time and one half Between clicked wooden heels And shuffle scuffed leather toes. Shrieking warped wood boards Bemoaned the restless pacing Until eased by the storm’s drippings Rolled from the oversaturated linen. Youth kept the nightdress white, Precisely creased on double pleat Perfumed in almond and rice starch. The insipidness of immaturity Creeped up the ironed dart lines To satiate the linen’s thirst for spoil, And seeped into the recurring path In a bogged mix of clay and blood. The sludge had smudged the vows Between the ruby and diamond ring. Lightning had taken exception, Or so it would have seemed, To the metal cockerel above the well. It’s striking boldly lit the sodden grass To illuminate a solitary jacquard spat Encased, leather, side button boot. He’d sworn himself inconspicuous once, Yet adorned himself so pretentiously For the eyes of the unwed maidens On the night he was intended to wed. The dusty manor house windows Did not hide the ostentatious footwear From the overwhelmed on looker As she bit her nails cuticle bare. Had he simply fallen, she’d be asleep For the drunkard had overindulged On pints of overtaxed Thames Gin. But he cracked his crown on limestone Before his legs lost the ability to hold His brainless form to full attention. Inebriation settled most heavily In the bones of his shaking wheeze. Had not the split of his mindless skull Incapacitated his conscious movement, His well wished departure would be, To the greatest of detest and chagrin, Replaced by opiate coma numbing As his bride rode Peeler’s prize In a carted cage of lucid lunacy And cursed language of wicked folk. Luck had been her bedfellow, Strength her mightiest gift giver, And determination: her kind muse. No sooner could he groan in ache Than his moaning was quick silenced In the crunch of crumbled spine That met with a barren dark age well. Her hand warmed by the liquid wax, She stopped pacing to reflect with joy At the sickening sound of lifelessness.
Born in the hazed amber I was swaddled and charred. Another faceless giver In a faceless sea Waiting to choke
Inhale, hold, exhale Self inflicted. Slowly pluck feathers spring chickens Cluck no more - cough - cough - Burn one more Spark up
Science is unwelcome It's unholy. Innovation is unholy It's unwelcome. Dunk the witch She'll float Burn the witch She'll choke
She's gasping again Under the wildfire. Mother Earth gasps Inland on avocado smoke While you're eating Avocado on toast
I’m faithless and unashamed
For God did not give us grief.
Love manipulated our trust
So that chance could gamble
With the futility of our existence,
Ripping the tense velcro bonds
Of hearts grown together.
I applaud it’s gamesmanship,
For it doesn’t laude it in our faces
By any means other than simply
Gathering the grim and gaunt
In coats of greyed gaberdine.
Long coats hanging as if empty,
Made black from the heart’s rain.
I am faithless and entirely alone,
But still gesticulating to the air:
An open chested final demand
To give back the gift of grief
That greeted me at this graveside.
Need I be a god-fearing glossolalist
To return this heartbreak?
Run in the rivers Scrub beneath the finger nails Blink - it's back again
The brush of absence Without feeling or thinking Paints death into life
We can't wash our hands The blood is under the skin Written in our past
We never mastered houseplants. Above and beyond, but a foot to the left. A green thumb was never our best asset. If you didn't shoot, the leaves would be green. The potted plants thrived on the terrace: In the house they just repeatedly cried uncle, Their roots wiggling like an old b-movie. Do all new killers go blank in the stare? Gardening was worse than getting an instrument: Another substandard, low average hobby Intended to expand the pointless talking points. Maybe your urge is due to seasonal pollen? The effort level of the cactus was minimal. Yet in a humidity it was still kindling to burn. Should never have made them my central focus. The hardware store had a shovel clearance. I have to straighten literally anything out So I don't pace 'til the hour of judgement! You think I could pretend I wasn't here and hide? If you go down, will you bargain for my pardon?
A crystalized lowball glass sways; Jigging the rocks around the whiskey. Holding the glass is an aged hand, Belonging to an aged man Just threatening to tell a story. The bar listens with tense ears And choked breaths. "She was my first wife; June, beautiful, bewitching, bodacious; Too much so at times. She wore her hair pinned At the crook of her neck With a single silver barrette. It softened her harsh features Just a little you see. I came home one day To discover her on the floor, Deceased, With a single silver barrette Plunged deep in her eye socket. But nobody knew a damned thing!" The lowball swayed mores And the tavern slouches listened on. "Next there was my second wife, Anna-Marie. She was a pious woman, And her slight figure would pray Before performing any activity And i mean any, before the Lord. She tied the waist of her dress With a bright green ribbon; it was so tiny that waist of hers. Shame I found the ribbon Around that pretty porcelain neck. And for some reason, Everyone thought nothing of it!" The lowball was empty. Once the bartender topped it up The man continued. "Finally there is my beloved Jessie. Far too pretty and young Especially for this old ruffian, But she would ignite the fire To warm any man's soul. Now she's still alive. But that there stiff That got my gun going He's the bastard Snatched her from me. And with God as my witness, She remains my wife, So she belongs to me." And with one long final sip, He left the bar without his gun; High off of gunpowder and whiskey.
We Got matching Tattoos And we laughed when they sketched them. The needles buzzed, But we didn't pay them any mind, We merely enjoyed their sensations. When the guns were pulled back Our hearts had matching hourglasses, But yours was half empty, And mine almost full. We assumed an artistic difference Nothing more And delighted gleefully, Content being forever linked. I didn't see that last grain, But it fell faster than mine.
Come take a seat with Mrs Delora. Find the answers to your questions, Discover your truths, Explore your future, And marvel at her talents. But, beware, You may find more than you seek, You may learn more than you need, And you may leave... Liberated! I took the man up on his offer, And sat on a stool inside the tent. Across the large wooden table Sat a Fortune teller Drowning in hemp cloth And gold charms. Her face was haggard, As if she had seen a thousand lifetimes. Her breath, strained and heavy, And the smell of stale smoke, Mixed with burnt herbs choked my lungs. She placed her hand out on the table, And coughed, wordlessly Demanding my hand in hers. In my open palm she placed a red stone, And closed my fingers tight. Are you a whore child? I gasped, offended, A whore! How dare she! I guess you’re just promiscuous, Don’t be offended, I’m just teasing, child. She started laughing, Throaty and coarse she cackled. But her humour was fugacious. You’ll be barren of life, You’ll just be a stand in, A temporary. Her words spun around my head, As they tightened the garotte Around my throat, Pulling burning breaths And twisting them under my tongue. Would you like some tea? It helps with the truth, Makes it palatable… I sip the mossy coloured liquid, It burns my mouth, But I can breathe again. I can breathe much slower, Pulling air deeply Into my famished lungs. Yes child, that’s it, Breathe. I nod, and bare my hand, The red stone in my open palm, It was tinged with black, Like a plague was spreading Tainting its surface. You won’t have to worry, You’ll not be left a spinster, You’ll be left, Penniless, naked, Alone in a ditch. Wha… Wha… The words slur incomplete. My breath long but shallow, My eyes open, Unblinking. Just breathe, Let Mrs Delora liberate you, Come take a seat with Mrs Delora. Find the answers to your questions, Discover your truths, Explore your future, And marvel at her talents. But, beware, You may find more than you seek, You may learn more than you need, And you may leave... Liberated!
Images move animatedly across the tv screen, Sounds are blended into the background noise, The foreground filled with heavy breathing, The satiation of pleasure between two, Summed up by title of ‘Netflix and chill.’ The sequel, a follow up on two series merging, Finally born, gendered by the pink onsie, The gentle curves of tassels and bows, And the growing basket of perfectly painted, Single expression, pose-able dolls. Years of playing courting, marriage, Nuclear house, one ken, one barbie, and baby, Of traditionalism imposed in playtime, destroyed. The babe who once played with dolls, Becomes the doll in the tent playing with her bae. Within a flash, the two are married, Both taking and barrelling their surnames, Living equal in their roles, life, and love, Until the hourglass is empty, And the grieving hold their umbrellas in the rain.
The Poet Armistead 