POPO2024 Day 41

First day’s a fluke, but the fluke’sbeen here 3 days, which meansit’s a new way. Eighties left in dust.Hello sixties, my friend.Real air washes through windows,across my skin, into my lungs.I can breathe soft and easy again.

POPO2024 Day 40

slaying the beastI needed to know my weight.Why doesn’t matter.The digital scale’s 9v was dead,which shows how long it’s beensince I faced the horror of the beast.When oooo marched across screenagain, I clenched my jaw, imaginedmyself as a cloud – and stepped on.Twenty-seven pounds … less.Body dysmorphia is a bitch, but today this bitch put…

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TankaTuesday Poetry Challenge — Paradise (tanka puente)

Paradisegold light envelopspulses flesh in its rightnesspatience rewardedoblivious beyond heatinevitable ashes~Because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it.~ reality riselike bile from a sucker punchcurled in a sick bedtear-soaked pillow, remembersonly the shiny apple top image: “APPLES OF EDEN” by Aurika Piliponiene. ‪ Bridge quote is from Chuck Palahniuk, from his novel, “Choke.”…

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#FF — What’s left is the waiting

PHOTO PROMPT © MrBinks What’s left is the waiting “Harold!” Harold startles from his reverie. “Time for dinner!,” calls his mother, expecting to repeat her announcement before he flutters down the stairs to join the family for crushed corn and mealworms. Harold is what some call a dreamer. When they ask him, “what’s going on…

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POPO2024 Day 39

The rooftop garden has paved pathways, sculptures, ground covers, grasses,water beds for lotus and lily,and bog beds for pitcher plants.The scent of dead, tricked bugsdraws big, black robber waspswho brace their back legs atthe curve of pitcher plant mouthsand try to pluck out dissolvingcorpses without falling in.https://www.meijergardens.org

POPO2024 Day 38

I bought a painting of a bridge.Attached to it are many silky,synchronous threads.Not knowing where to hang itat first, the entryway presentedas perfect; as a portal betweenworlds, to be traversed again and again.

dVerse — Prosery Monday — Woolly Winter

There you can see a very small patch Of dark blue, framed by a little branch, Pinned up by a naughty star. — Arthur Rimbaud, from Novel Woolly Winter Months-long winter drains, where no snow brightens, no gusts whistle, and dis-ease suffocates. Today, Martha rides away in the creaky carriage after explaining she needs color…

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