Discovered

Discovered God in the mirror.
Discovered I liked it.

Discovered the world in my pores.
Discovered fault lines in my face.

Discovered the beast is a blade.
Discovered the beauty of bone.

Discovered the beginning is silence.
Discovered the end is a scream out of reach.

For Grace's mirror prompt at Real Toads

Tramp Stamp

Send me a letter with a tramp stamp.
Unzip coded and still damp
from the wicked wet of your ca-lick-graphy.
Address it to your favorite part of me.
Scratch me a salutation.
Put your nails in my coffin of temptation.
Shroud me in stationery sheets.
Bury me beneath your scarlet ink.
Then, sign it with the shape of your lips
and seal it with a candle wax kiss.
Rain, snow, sleet, or hail,
I'll be checking twice a day for the mail.

Some Postmark Poetry for Fireblossom's prompt at Real Toads

On Becoming A Nightingale

                The

           lonely flesh  I

  hide in   -  cast it aside

           and my spirit flies.  Tiny

              thoughts and blind fears so far away

                 the world is mine as I resurrect the wonders of 

                   ancient days that were never lost.

                      Drifting through the

                       thunder, storms I

                          create, and I'm

                             not afraid.

                                   I

                                a

                              m

                        not afraid .             

"A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why."

- - - Percy  Shelley 

For Sam's prompt at Real Toads.  Forgive me, Sam; I cheated a little.  I reworked a very old piece. This is actually a snippet of some song lyrics written 20 years ago.  I haven't written a better description of how poetry makes me feel since.  

Trust Me

Today at Real Toads, Susie has us writing street poetry.  "The challenge is to write a street poem.  What would you like to leave on the concrete, the wall, a light post, a picnic table, in a cafe, a grocery store, etc. for someone to find?  I had a little fun with it.  This is actual street art from Richmond, Virginia.  I just added the text.

Cream

My coffee pot
is a burning bush;
when I wake up,
I fill my cup
with a Red Sea rush
of sacramental caffeine.

Then, I part it with cream.

Amen.

For the kick-off of a Poem A Day in April at Real Toads.