Chance Of Rain

There's a chance of rain today.
But, isn't there always a chance of rain?
I mean, we see our bit of blue and call it the sky,
but that's just blink and heartbeat.
Clouds edge our eyes,
gathering, gathering,
but we're all blind.
Clear day blind.
There's a chance of rain today.
But, isn't there always?

55 words for Kerry at Real Toads

Time

Hour glass girl.

Mama named me Time.

I suckled on the secondhand,

cut my teeth on the edge of night.

A maiden in the morning.

A crone come afternoon.

Sickly by the sunset.

A corpse for the rising moon.

Mama named me time.

I'm just passing 

through.

For Marian's prompt at Real Toads

BFFs

I'll go if you go

first - I'm right beside you - don't

let go of my hand.

For my daughter.

For The Mag.

July Remembered

July.

Rain fell
like it hadn't heard there was a drought,
and it was cool enough to put shivers
in the sunset.

Danny James kissed
the birthmark on my thigh
and wished on the whole sky
full of stars.

There were all the usual wars.

July.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Warblers

Six singing warblers.
Quick springs the stealthy, old cat!
Five singing warblers.

Revisiting haiku for Play It Again at Real Toads

Ring Of Fire

By half past eight,
I've traded night for day,
but I'm still sleeping.
Well, I'm driving.
No, I'm absent,

but I'm keeping on
when this old song comes on the radio.
Mariachi horns in single file swagger,
sharp as sent for me daggers, and I feel something
familiar
like my pulse.

I follow their snaking through my suburban streets and home
to where everyone's gone, and it's just
his voice -
that voice
the voice in my garage wilderness -
singing.

And I have an impulse
to leave the engine running,
to close the door.
I could,
I could,
but love

is a burning thing.

For Grapeling's word pair challenge at Real Toads.  I used absent / sent and pulse / impulse.  This has been edited several times since I first posted it.  Sorry; I just can't seem to get it right.

Steeple Chase

I've steeple chased
from Buddha to Jesus.
Enso to Cross.
I'm still lost.
Holy Ghost on toast!
Can't even buy hallelujah.

Book of Mormon
Book of Job.
Cryptic message
in my horoscope.
Nursed every mirror's smoke
trying to get to you.

In the beginning was The Word.
The only word I've heard is No.
In the end, it's all absurd.
I'm never going to know

enough to suffocate
doubt and call it faith

unless you call me.

A rough draft inspired by an Anna Karenina word list.

Survivor Cricket

Cricket singing out of sight.
Cricket, cricket, hidey-hide
from gecko's grisly crich, crich, crunch
or you'll be grisly gecko's lunch.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

The Promises

I would have said anything
to make it easier for you.
I would have said anything
to make it easier for me.
Grief makes a good liar,
and I was willing to titrate the truth.
But now,

weeding through my words,
I'm stung by what's taken root -
nettles, proof
of the vows I've not kept,
needling and pricking me apart.
The promises you wouldn't have let me make
if you'd seen him
brush against me in the dark.

A bit of a rough draft for K's prompt at Real Toads

Note: titer is a medical term. It's a measurement of the amount or concentration of a substance in a solution.   I kind of liked using it as a verb, but I've changed to the more accurate (and grammatically correct) titrate.

Love, Thy Enemy

Love, thy enemy came to borrow
sugar, the soft of my skin,
and a seed from the tree of tongues.

I gave him sonnets,
the nape of my neck,
and a second glance

that he'll return tomorrow.

For Kerry's prompt at Real Toads

Running Water

I have

a flush toilet
and running water;
heat, cool,
and a roof over my head.

How dare I complain

that shit rolls and flows downhill
like running water;
that you love me hot and cold;
that under every roof is a glass ceiling?

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

For The Wild Box

where have you fled with your wild box
full of hearts --- Carilda Olivar Labra

Collect
my every whispered yes
for the wild box.
Ribbon wrap
my fortune cookie sighs.
Fill pages
in your journal with my
sleep talk.
I only dream
when I have open eyes.

For Grace's prompt at Real Toads

Purge

When I've fed on the dark
and I'm full to the throat,

my relief
my antidote

is prairie grass fingers, swallowed -
choke,

purge,
and call it poetry.

For Ella's prompt at Real Toads

Unread

I close my eyes and try
to approach the throne of God, but in my mind
I see gilt leaves and brocade.
No God that made me
would ever sit there

like the pair of cardinals
on my backyard fence.
In them, I sense something holy;
holy enough for a dozen white dress Sundays.
I offer them shreds for their mulberry nest
and leave the rest

of the paper unread.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads