NaPoWriMo 2017 #3

The Mortal’s Prize

Ceiling slats and shadow rats,
the perceptible shards you left,
in attic halls of dampened walls,
piss stained bourbon kush craned air,
self destructive lint bred lairs,
that darkness bled your soul’s light for,
protoplasmic B- white cell chaos,
corner connective fascination,
that’s the mortal’s prize.

© 2017 cdd All Rights Reserved


NaPoWriMo 2017 #2

Glory and Goodbyes

The singing of glory songs is common in the tent camp of mutation … come follow the tracks of Snake Oil doctors … their wagons heavy laden with the sins of scam and dereliction toward the eldest, those suffering … learn a trade you can fall back on when your day job is misguided by the prairie fires and dust bowl prayer pamphlets … they will be printed on the backs of recycled WWII Sugar Ration coupons … The day we buried the most beloved elder of our nation he met her at the white man’s roadside … his clothes no more than rags now, the buckskins of his youth shredded beneath the towers of steel and copper indigenous compression, now thought to be his Sunday best black wool teasel brushed … he wore his moccasins in protest … only those with their hearts still aligned with Great Spirit could see them …He had walked to the hard road from somewhere in the shadow of the pines where few ever cared to wander anymore or any less … his thin skinned face telling stories to the rocks and upwards warmth seeking blossoms … as the path of his eyes was only the few steps ahead of where the dust rose in constant presence … cradled in his hand was a hat, not fitting the suit or moccasins yet, trembling for was his heart … as she passed in the gas piston carriage for the final time … he bowed his head with a depth of slightness which even the trees ceased their sway to catch in their branches … centuries rose from the aura about him and his countenance rode on the four winds once again with her … their sacrifices palpable even to the rain who quenched Spirits’ thirsts metamorphosed into the sweetness we each cotton … blessed and forbidden … bringing none the less our choice of flower fair or vain, glory or disdain, is that which meets us each on the final journey home … to love perhaps, as he did secretly … for you have a fairer face to guard and gain … a road to travel in a way for remembrance from which we all came … may all your noble lives remain joyfully arranged.

© 2017 cdd All Rights Reserved

In the Land of Paper Cranes

Honor reigns as the code of the rain in the Land of Paper Cranes … the unspoken behest of Grandmothers nurturing the world eggs beneath celestial capes of eternal down … flight wings of Spirit pressed between the woodpecker’s page gown lining their nest with light as children palm innocence … Here the bamboo moths quiver spun and quest, their life span willing metaphors … our fragile vapors searching for ignition in this land of forbidden flames … we all remain silk worm pupae attainment … where upon slip current pale veins often succor lotus stamen perfume and dreams die … sea, land, wind, or water fowl born demure and azure cored are we all … the truest trowel beak bill to web footed alliances yet descend from ancient egret masters … parchment creased folding crisp mountains to beg a valley’s hand … paisley kaleidoscope sand hill dancing twixt marble eyed maybes and wishes on the wings we are … those who want the breeze to take us gently as a duckling … bounce love on its knee until we all believe or leave the pond to those who … origami light by stardust mirrors when night has awakened hidden hopeful smiles …

 © 2017 cdd All Rights Reserved

Tunnel… I’m not the only one …

A lake lies dead … sickness fills its gills at the ice’s edge … hurried clutter and cramped fur decaying abide … an open mouth surface sucking blue gill seeking the blessings of summer air … a litter moisture white flake scatter of two foot fair channel cat and their grass carp brothers in arms … they were ships in their former life … now barely magnetic worth in a pond of a sea … the eagles land when the strength of winter holds fast against the sun’s wobble spun proclamations … they fill their purposes with craven mouthed worm gills from death’s cold clay …

As for me … I exist on kindness and crackers … the coffee of other’s honest obituaries and funeral home basement sugar cube seven year old powdered cream misunderstandings … oatmeal cookies the Basset hound found forgotten or meant shared later to maddened murder, a mayhem with smiling songs … the children, they are passing as well … one by one of strange prophecies, illness or curse … poppets perhaps, directed to eat my hair while I sleep  … dreaming of lovers just beyond the shores of all my ancient oceans … spells to banish boogeymen some dare to own twice … I care not pardon those who choose to sacrifice the seeds to save fruit left un-harvested, un-hailed, and impotent to glory’s grace in exchange for a moment’s licking fire parade of id or ire, either shamed … Will I burn in some fresh hell for this confession that my love of all transcends my love of self ? … I may … Comfort sends me postcards from those who will join me and we plan our potlucks, vegetarian and cruelty-free whenever possible …

Does The Creator seek religion each time war seems endless between his unruly children ? … Did The Christ child within the man looking toward the heavenly home in prophetic hues of black betrayal ? … Is this why we have cultivate flower gardens … to pay for our inability to not break the truth that he came here to show us … that our love could save him … not the obtuse … each day he breathed the bait, yet, remained for Love is the ghost and the game, the trial, the cross, the only healing shot in the veins … driving the damaged onto a frigid tile floor of some convenient store … both have forgotten why at times … toilet water dipped in pain’s stains to thin the sap he gifted those too beautiful to remain whole … once the illusion slipped the remains of memory into the shape shifting phos-copper flames of lotus elixirs … our silver brazed brass glands gasping outside the rain … no end, nor order, never hope to hold the few remains of perishing chased scissor lace … cirrus clouds which banish the bane of dagger thrust sanity …

Meanwhile, … here I am ever weaving webs of light in the corners of Bethlehem … the Spirits of my Grand Mothers ever guiding my hands … tears spun to likened lamp oil light only the Holy may see … praying for wishing horses to ride once again … I never cease believing, though there are some things my heart desires blindness to …

© 2017 cdd All Rights Reserved

We were where we thought to be …

Empty palms may read mere molecular blinds … those scents Spring dares not harness when the lilacs vine … beyond bordered crimes heart held inductive spinal tines … we … originations of the arbor and the eyes wine seeks to know the soul through … how can our colors be mistaken for hues the sun forbid creation …  our magic muses of black matter’s time … my hope has held the dove’s anklet alone with no other prize … save the sweet and somber carousel of your reprise … host of Spirit’s own voice in rebel sighs … and how I live to hold a penny or a pint of this presence … luck laboring might find … scatterings of laughter, warmth, resign, to our being where we thought ourselves to be …

Bending to Your Fancy

Winter’s willing bride again cradles the looking glass which Spring, as maiden, held seeming moments ago … dewy instrument of visage fortunes, the lullaby of seasonal bitter brace … Her fair sun portrait now locked in Sisters’ crystal orb, birch lace, and paper mittened graces … She stands whole in the disillusions of Persephone’s interrupted resurrection … the flocked seasons of red wheat, Her crown … pale as the wash with which She holds time bridled, bitten, and seeking … Her soul engulfed in the creation of brindle frost and frond the Love only the Poet and His Poem alone are able to awaken and possess … He reigns over Summer’s fire and Autumn in its stolen wonder … She whisper’s to the night’s fragile ebony tangle … Yours … Now … Sometimes … and Ever …

© 2017 cdd All Rights Reserved

Happy Valentine’s Day, Darling …


Morning breaks in the red ruddy flames of Dawn’s plumb and blush … sleepless bedlam born have I been with wine stung eyes masked in anticipation … anxious tears wear the dancing crone’s stem in ritual cascades beneath a mighty thundering gather … my skirts are yellow as Rudbeckiah’s petals with cornflower ruffles, polka dotted and gingham in the manner the Phoebe sings … its own joyful soul liquid in trills and moss maiden purposes … It is in his love’s bower my heart keeps spry, wise, and sunrise surprised at what news the blue skink shall bring to window pane … poem and uttered palette knife collage travels through ions on spider web silk succor and chalk painted prayers … beetle dung orb anchored celestial illuminations affixed to his canvas slipping wormhole wobbles with the ancient excrement of all peoples in One skin … this is his Spirit’s time clock and rip cord flying squirrel sun dial, where it’s always the moment of Now … of his most precious choosing … My gladness buds from the rust of city rail and rain gutter drain remains from lord less fools who disdain such beautiful veins … cat whisker chin tickling garden gains thrive where color cast Babbit grains and the granite Adam roams the maze … ever a seeker of a finer faire cause rosy sway … tis noble I say … a cause I sink satin and sword alike in to stay a course worthy of Inanna’s grace … for I love him as soul’s first felt lace in the darkness when reaching towards Light … auric circumference of Luna’s bright shadow … I, ever bitten, brave, and bare throated in happy bondage to love’s priceless surrender.

© 2017 cdd All Rights Reserved