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The Flower Maiden

Beside me marched my fellow flower maidens - sickles sharp, crowned in flowers, wreathed in armor.

Behind me strode our keepers - masked in ibis beaks, breaths sweetened by the herbs within.

Far, far behind, a city rose upon a mountain - a cornucopia of silos, fattened fruit, and children.

None of them were ours.

Rebirth was everything, the city sang. I cannot think that that's all that I am good for. Then I survived a sudden strong wind thick with Fertile pollens. With these flowers on my crown, they've marked me as a hollow vessel. They've written infertility across my brow.

In their eyes, I am barren. So in their kindness, they send me with heir keepers and their quest.

Ahead of me, in a pollenic haze, the Fertile rise up from their fields. The castrated keepers sing, light and sweet, as we slip into the yellow fog...

One per acre, man and wife,

Stamen, pistil, throat and knife,

For every spring, a weedy cull.

For every fruit, a belly full...

For every fruit, a belly full.  Lips stuffed with lavender, rose-thorns scarring the edges of eye sockets fluttering with soft petals, sinuous vines threading their sun-dried skin - once I've cut and weeded the Fertile from our city's fields? I'll pluck a fruit each from their hearts.

The flesh, I will eat, to fill my belly. Each pair of seeds, I'll spit up for the next year's harvest.I will fill my belly so they'll let me be fulfilled. I'll give them fruit so I that I can be rid of them. As the flower maidens march into the pollen-dusted fields, the keepers sing of glory, victory, and maidens turned to mothers. They'll never make life. They have no seed of their own. Only this.

I don't know what's more inhuman; what lies before me or the city now so far behind us.

I don't know, but as sure as the seasons, I cannot stop it. I can only survive.

Prompt: An ominous Anonymous

when winter ends, but death begins.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking your prompts, review requests, questions, or random input.

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maestro

Maestro

 

so subtle the transformation

from peon to poet

with new regard

for rhythm and rhyme...

when did our retellings

become a minuet of words

it sounds absurd

a metronome

has made our head its home

iambic footfalls

echo in our hearts

so often wake to musings in the dark

ta-dum-ta-dum-ta-dum-ta-dee

used, Edwardian words

like "thou" and "thee

and 'neath or 'tween

or ere and o'er

when was it we began to

sense the shape

of words well told

the emphatic use and place

"italics" - "bold"

like a blushing bride

white linen, ready,

awaits our words - our soul

to bleed black word by word

phrase by phrase

used sparingly

simile

metaphor

alliteration

done masterfully

to give our stories

color, character, charisma

no longer just a tale well told –

life by the letter

but a symphony of sound

and you – “ Maestro"

pen poised

an orchestra of words

expectant

waiting to spring forth

in orgasmic passion

with each purposeful stroke

of your baton

 

 

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No. 88

Lost without a mouth

The body fights the feeling

Desert moon shines on

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Washington Reagan National Airport, 8:50 AM, Monday

 

 

Gate 19 from Cincinnati

Disembarks a company of black roller bags

in close order formation

forward tilt, like a trail of almost falling dominoes

ignoring the enticements of Faber News and Dunkin Donuts

 

Their counterparts, handles extended

Stand like sentries, lances pointed skyward
wait to transport cargoes of clean underwear, socks, blue button downs

to Atlanta or Chicago

The elite of their rank to board first  

 

Either way

this is one more outpost

in a one more hemisphere

in a rolling parade

that transports the great global society to work.

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step

*

confused, edgy 

staring into nowhere

anywhere but down

*

cool, crisp air up on the roof

should I be here? 

sidestepping, backtracking

a halfcircle turn, 

then, a voice...

*

'go back...'

*

halfcircle back

toward the ledge

look down, now

wondering - what if?

so tired...

*

so i step -

into blackness; no bottom, no movement 

*

i step -

no drop, yet nothing stopping my tread  

*

i step -

a fog lifts, my mind begins to shift

*

i step -

and...

*

truth,

I don't know next what happened,

but i do know that

I'm now a stepper - a stepper! 

not a looker 

at ledges

i'm renewed too,

now. 

with my wings

i can fly 

wherever i want -

wherever.

*

5/13

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On Wembury Beach

How was it we were brought together?

A glorious weekend in June,

The sun shone, entranced by our union, refusing to be hidden

As we stood on that balcony, oblivious, and played flawlessly

The parts which the gods had written for us, 

Unaware that every word we spoke

Was but the closing of Vulcan’s engine that

Compelled us together.

 

The evening wore on, and the envious sun 

Hid itself in a shroud of mauve and vermilion.

The balmy night drew in, and I fell into unconsciousness

Unaware of my surroundings. 

Light greeted me. The crushed whites of an uncovered duvet

Lit by the hasty promises of a coastal morning, 

And the azure sea shimmered in the cove. 

Gulls called to me, and the tang of salt echoed through my nose.

 

I turned to find you

Lying completely still beside me,

With your smouldering eyes closed you looked almost angelic, 

Ultimately at peace with the world. 

We lay in a window seat, not four foot square

Our forms held tightly to each other, 

Battling the morning chill that lit up your cheeks, 

And there I found perfection.

The wind tussled your hair as you lay, 

You held me tighter, instinctively, 

And every worry I ever had drifted away 

On those playful gusts, and out, over the sea

To join the thoughts of those

That also lay in perfection.

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2# Misunderstood

Silent,

Angry,

Misunderstood.

 

Darkness,

Raging,

A wall full of blood.

 

Painful,

Carvings, 

Cut's from a knife.

 

Lonely, 

Sadness, 

Hoping to die.

 

 

 

 

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3 0 3

Death

Seasons flash by in giddy haste

Minutes coalesce into years and the grave awaits

But patience is its bedfellow

For an end comes to all and certainty is laughing

What tears may fall for wasted fervor

What hands may wring for that which passed by

I died today as sure as I will some time hereafter

And it crumpled my strength as a paper crane under peak hour haste

Funny thing dying, the emptiness at its core holds peace

Yet it is a quiet fear, calming and cold

If this is true deaths substance

Let it come.

It can bear me no greater sorrow than

Life as it unfolds in my hands this day

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Tree

Good old childhood tree,

your branches break, your trunk's cracked.

You are just like me.

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My burger brain is fried
from writing super-sized poetry
with onions on the side,
makin' me cry, makin' me spill ink
from my masked drunken eye.
As cool as a Kiddie Cone
and as hot as a Big Mac,
with a mind as jam-packed 
as a midnight
sweet chili chicken McWrap.
Chewing words, spewing writing
that goes unheard.
Bones grilled, art has been killed,
my heart is empty
but (at least) my stomach
has been filled.