summer became a blue
pool, the sky swept away
all its dark streams,
the tide wept at our happiness
and we could not bear to be apart.

rewrite it, add the dots, delete the rhyme.

erase the last draft, start again,constantly.

wrap arte facts in paper. box for transportation.

lose the plot,scrap the lot, fear the repercussions
constantly.

now there is a good word, if the space bar works.

do you wish you wrote longer stuff, important tomes,
well i do,
constantly.

it is all ready now, i just need your instructions,
and i know you have asked.
constantly.

sbm.

things went accordingly
explosive by the book
consequently I found
pineful silhouettes
fossils of empty hands
floating poems
the boundaries of words
silk illusions or outrageous life
frozen layers of pain
pigments of pride
here is the splitting point
hey, don’t leave with me-crumbs
on your shoulders
I could make you the watchman of dreams
were they to loosen their grip

I am the daughter
of those serious people
without tears
the first flash of light-
the primordial invasion
violence against unformed space
a trapping container
I had to find escaping routes
from my mother’s womb
it chewed me out
it left me with no skin
so naked,  insane

I couldn’t try my birth before
only measure my pace
put it into question marks
spin around in memory-years
till it hit me that
I was so old
when I was born
not to hold on to
the vortex of wonder
the essence of reverie
the crest & zest of words
till I can make it
to the other side
of gravity

Thirty-six years ago
Singing in the rain
My mind filled with dreams of singing inside

Somewhere
Maybe should have left that dream
Dream somewhere
Maybe somewhere
Like on a Winnipeg farm
Somewhere

Then I left my dream
Somewhere
I fought in secret wars for my country
Somewhere
But, there is no record of it
Anywhere

But, Somehow I managed to glean other dreams
with some (of them) having every color of the rainbow
I guess that that would be all of the colors
Not all the colors are true

I've been told to watch my timbre
How can I see what belongs to the ear?
So, I tell them where to put their pulgar
and number ten my amplitude
  
Here goes
  
Go Ahead and chuck-up Miss Bulimia
You're running way too high
Like A12 hertz
I haven't hit and absolute since high school
and that one came with too much f**ng dirt
  
The true witch, Miss Bulimia
With pendulums for breast
Wanted to entrapped me, slap
Some bracelets 'round my fists
  
I never could paste saccharin on to dog ****
And if I could it would not change the taste
I hope you find the one you want
Someone that never catches you
While I sit here
and slash both of my wrists
  
Cutting is such a natural, no frills high
Doesn't cost you much
But you could die
Better than a drug
You bleed your heart
every time you remember
how it starts
  
A dream
  
of love
  
gone
  
forever
  
Goodbye Miss Bulimic USA
You never could be true is what you said
Still living in a lie
If you got fat, you'd probably die
A head that gives
Is only just a head
Make fun of me
But, wait until I'm dead

"Helen, the radiance of women..." - Homer

Had Helen of Troy been a modern American woman,
she would have checked her email, called her boss,
updated her Facebook page, looked at her calendar,
gone to the gym and talked with her therapist
before running away with Paris.
She would also have consulted her girlfriends
to determine if he was really that into her
and examined a bevy of relationship
self-help books just to make sure.
Certainly, she would have googled him,
had a friend perform a credit check,
and demanded an STD clearance from his doctor.
When the ships and soldiers arrived
to redeem her honor and rescue her,
she would have told them in a huff
that she was an independent woman
quite capable of taking care of herself
and didn't need the help of any men,
before stepping over the dead male bodies
and accepting a free ride home.
Later she would write a wildly popular
estrogen drenched memoir about her trials
filled with spiritual advice, travel notes and recipes.
Paris, of course, would be conveniently dead.
Some stories do not improve when updated.
  - mce

(Corpus Christi, Texas-circa 1947)
It's a short block, a cul-de-sac,
total of sixteen houses lining the street.
No sidewalks, the grass ends
where the curb begins.

A  lone palm tree stands in the southwest corner of the front yard.

There were no fences separating the properties
Driveways, leading to the separated garages were the markers.
That didn't stop us, however-
The neighborhood was a continuous playground.

Many families were military-
in the U S Navy,
Or civil service employees
at the Corpus Christi Naval Air Station

From those sixteen homes were twenty-three children-
some families had multiple children-
ranging from four to twelve..............I was six years old-
For the parents, finding peace and quiet
was only a dream

I learned to ride a bike on that street-
although learning how to stop it
was another issue.........
Had it not been for that lone palm tree.

I became very adept at timing-
knowing when to jump off that bike-
moments before impact-
Eventually, I learned what dad meant with
"USE THE BRAKES!"

A few bruises
some scrapes(arm or knee)
Nothing serious-
I survived!

As our parents aged, they often would reminisce about those days. Dad had two major philosophies about growing up: "Yards were made for kids to play in", and "If we can hear them, at least we know where they are!" Most of the time they were in our backyard playing on our swing and trapeze set that a family friend built for me and my brother. That yard was, basically, a "miniature park."  

Our mother was, what is termed now, a "stay at home mom." She was the "overseer, watchdog, and resident medic." At least two or three times a day, she answered the phone, only to hear another mother's voice asking if their kid was over there, and if so, tell him, or her, to go home.

While reminiscing, the one thing that our father, mother, and my brother agreed on is, "That was one hell of a sturdy bike!" I never will forget that palm tree. It saved my a_ _ more than once!!

Society has changed, Donna, you're absolutely right!!

copyright: richard riddle July 20, 2015
                   revised: July 21, 2015

An old angelic poet went flying
one drab and tempestuous night.

Upon the clouds he rested
as the fallen angels were in his sight.

Whence all angel's were together
Serving their mighty God.

Now separated by good and evil
By free will the hellion hadst lost.

Their spaceships were ablazed
And their crown's they wore as king's.

Their wing's we're ivory crystalline
And their thunderous aura like electricity didst ring...

A trace of cherub dust they left behind in the sky
Telepathically knowing, today their wing's shalt fly...

Chorus-
Chariot's roll
Chariot's play
Seraphim riders, in the sky.......

Their countenance unearhtly, their eye's lit
Their batas all drenched by unseen blood.
Their flying hard to get those hellion
But they've lost one of their ship's.

Because it's their duty, to protect the all powerful God
They sweep by force in by million's, with lightning bolts as Rod's.

As the chariot Master's swept by the ghouls
The ghoulies calleth out their names,
The serpahim said to the ghoulies
Go back to hell from whence thou came.

And hellion its to late to changeth thy ways, thou made a bad choice..... So the Hellion's retreated, back to their doom of fiery noise....

Chorus-
Chariot's roll
Chariot's play
Seraphim rider's in the sky,
Serpahim rider's in the sky
Serpahim rider's in the sky......

the birthing goddess
her body preparing for insemination
the richness pooled among her trenches.
bright red and hot. when she can no longer
contain
it explodes out
with a force we are always unprepared for.

She, our mother.
our creator. we molded in the fire of her womb.
She, our mother, fractionally recreates.
She, knows her purpose.
the crimson show is for no weak man,
men struggle to understand the power
in that core. they, too far removed from
their mothers hands. mother's lands remind us,
but we wear shoes for that.

today, I read that we all began as woman.
my body is the predecessor of my sons.
so invested in LOVE and creation,
she
gives up her organs for the balance of our time.
sacrifices the creative womb
to bring forth the solution. the balance.
she knows instinctively that
her womb
is the power of the center of our Earth.
is the power of the rapture of destruction
the force of the creation of LOVE.
she, our Mother.
like with all children, the farther you are from mom,
the less you remember her lessons.

she calls me to her bedside.
I enter the room, confidence birthing
as I near my Mother's side.
she embraces me, touches my soul
through other family members
and through LOVE.
she sacrifices her easy rotation,
her youthful spin, I feel the dizziness too now.
slowing down with conscious effort within
at my Mother's bedside, I shower her with LOVE,
compassion, tears, nutrition, beautiful flowers to smell,
all the things she taught me.
all the things she gives me.

our Mother Earth who LOVES
our fertile Father
our genetics, the subtleties.

the street lights are on…

do you here your Mother's call?

Many make up the festival
so many warm hearted

Who would deny a place
to the hot fire
of the hash fudge maker

~

A playful sun
  peeks over
   a slumbering
  horizon,
     tickling the
   dawn with
      daffodil giggles
  and flirtatious
   touches,
    awaking the
      new day
         with a smile

Just as I do
  when opening
    my eyes
     to see this
     same cheerful
   sunrise glowing
      through
   our window,
      illuminating
        my beautiful
          new day
            *that is you

You asked me
"if you were a flower
what would you be?"
I said I'd be a red
Amaryllis
because they bleed
before they die
just as my heart
bled
for each day
you were gone.

© Sia Jane