April’s door opens

Shoving my foot in April’s open door, a draft bleeds in to color my words with Sweet Pea’s caged cries
Her Peek a boo echoes
A look at me plea
Set me free set me free
Words create phrases
Of birds stuck in cages
While cats lift their faces
Perfidiously

Three for three

—warhen 24

door number three

jus 2 it

tippy toe through the tulips
on this tuesday april two

waning fore the write begins
weeds to weed
deeds to deed
excuses born to supercede
fingers keying keys
poetic wannabes

two for two and counting

–warhen 24
For Miz Quickly’s NaPo Apr 2 prompt “Write any poem of Two(2).”

toes dip into the fooling pool

April that rippling impostor pretends poliwogs count for more than moments squishing muck between toes until tadpole becomes frog whose ass end you step on making guts spew from its wide-hinged mouth—there between the small rocks where creek water flows.

-warhen 2024

For Miz Quickly’s NAPOWRIMO Apr 1 prompt “write about getting your wet feet”. 

Good Omens

bald eagle rising
a head’s up penny
laughter
the fox that taunts my good hound dog
completed puzzles
that lone white wolf
double yolks
a crocus pushing through snow

~bwarren 23

Day 7 asked for a list poem.

Not that Mercy

Not that tenuous flamingo
red in its wetness
it drips in pieces
cursing its too thin legs
tripping over memories of Mumbai

Not that antelope
stirring images of Delhi
it strays from the herd
pounding its hooved feet
on elephant hides
long since dried into pavement

Not that child
hiding in the well
watching time devour coins
that pass for wishes

Not that vulture
shredding flesh from courtyards
raging against a too blue sky

Have mercy on the pitiless
executioner
lost in power
lost in the handle of an axe

Have mercy on that child
whose prayers flutter as flamingo knees knock

Have mercy on the vulture circling with
strips of flesh that flow
like ribbons
scattering syllables
with each thwack
of the executioner’s axe

~bwarren 23
The prompt for Day 6 asked that we look at a poem in a language we do not read, and write a poem based on it. The poem I selected can be found here. To be honest, I read it in English once, and based the poem on my impressions from both the English and Peter Verhelst’s original poem.

You are always right.

Anger eats a hole in your heart

you try to fill it with straw and denial
but teeth push up through the edges of the hole
and feed on the pumping muscled flesh
widening your vitriol
feeding on the bile you spit against
anyone’s apology

refusing to accept responsibility for wrongs
perceived and real
your heart feeds on
itself
you did nothing
and don’t understand why
other people widen their berth, stifled laughter turning to
pity as you pass, your chin turned up in defiance
face twitching against your heart’s dying pleas

you deserve so much more

bwarren 23
Day 5 prompt.

Ant Karma

In the kitchen
A never ending line of worker ants
1 by 1
They gather kernels of rice and dry cat food

After I poison them,
Their lines develop uncertainty
Swirling in circles
Stopping,
yet moving their heads
in creepy ant surveillance mode
Plotting their revenge
Their comeback for
Poison
For hoping they perish
And never appear in my kitchen again

Their numbers
ebb and flow
Ebb and flow
Through cycles of lines and swirls

I visualize the Orkin Man and worry
That I might build bad ant karma.

What if it never ends?

~bwarren 23

How to be direct

Hackles Rise
Hisses hiss
Asses are exposed to kiss

Here. sit
Breathe in intention
Breathe out reaction
Breathe in reflection
Breathe out affection

dream yourself a bird

Breathe out feathers
preened and tattered

Remember that pheasant? Roadkill you threw in the way back?

Two weeks later, I looked for that bird and found it teaming with maggots whose wet bodies wormed round the shaft of its quills feeding on the flesh of the pheasant left for dead.
Unimportant roadkill
Thrown in the way back

What does any of this have to do with hackles and rewards?

Or how to be direct.

Evasive. That’s what it is I’ve learned to do: toss word salad.

~bwarren 23

Day Three – off prompt

shoot

a holy choir of trees lines
rows of white folding chairs
like a song with no music

a child shoos a fluttering of magpies while
a red-winged blackbird screeches circles around the bride
her wedding dress covered in hand-stitched crystal rhinestones and pearls
the bullet flies back into the barrel of the gun
as crows march down Main Street

stopping to peck at horse manure from yesterday’s wedding march parade

~bwarren 23

The day 2 prompt birthed this one.

vanishing

this impenetrable image whispers hints
of my face
of my fashion
of my privilege
of my light

who was I ?

slivers of recognition stand upon spindles
as fragile as flamingo legs
all bone
no muscle
ready to snap into panic

please–
startle me
wake me without breath

keep me from decaying in daguerreotypes

~bwarren 23

While chasing today’s NaPo prompt, a link led me to Decayed Daguerreotypes. The images I viewed threaded today’s poem. My engine has started.