The Destroying Angel

 

In the Spring

in the woods

under a cool blanket of leaves

Amanita Verna waits for you

to find her, to pluck her

to raise her to your lips in blissful hunger

Go ahead.

Close your eyes

and then

taste her, bite her, open your mouth and swallow her

she won’t take you heart or break your heart

she’ll just shut it down

and then

we can bury you  in the Spring

in the woods

where you can be with

Amanita Verna

forever.

 

 

Inspired By: RDP Thursday – Fungus

 

How To Be The Curious Traveler

There are buildings you’ve never seen before

with

cats lounging in windows,  curled in improbable shapes around potted plants, snoozing with one eye open under wind chimes, their fuzzy cheeks pressed against half drunk cans of soda pop.

There are streets you’ve never walked down before

lined with pastel colored cars and brightly colored garbage cans parked on the curbs where they silently fight for space on sidewalks much smaller then the ones at home

and

squeezed between brick and wooden houses and markets with decals of dancing fruit and children eating ice cream on their glass doors

are

little diners named after Mothers and Grandfathers and sometimes dogs that have  chickens and alligators or maybe fish painted on the windows.

 

Don’t pretend like you know where you’re going

as you stroll by the cats, the diners, the markets, the parked cars

don’t walk with the swagger and squint of a seasoned traveler, the wily  explorer who has scaled the  pyramids or cruised all of the  Seven Seas years ago on a dare.

Put the phone away, delete the app, it’s okay

to

take a wrong turn

to not know where this road leads and that road ends

So

don’t

close your eyes,

don’t take a breath

Jump right on in

the

water

is

fine.

 

Na/GloPoWriMo :It Begins Day 2- For our first (optional) prompt, let’s take our cue from O’Neil’s poem, and write poems that provide the reader with instructions on how to do something.

The Pumpkin Patch

In the field

that I  drive by each day

is a field of pumpkins

waiting to meet their makers for Halloween.

The pumpkins are round and orange and golden and they are full of sweet smelling pulp and slick smooth seeds.

Any day now the field will be decorated with scarecrows, the farmers will set up tables and serve warm spiced apple cider and hot chocolate and I think you can get your face painted before or after you pick your pumpkin.

I think the choice is yours.

There is  so much excitement in that field, on those days when people show up to drink warm cider, get their faces painted and pick out that perfect pumpkin to carve, to shape to mold into their vision, to tell their story about Halloween.

The  pumpkins are hallow, they are empty, they are lumps of cool white marble, softy gray clay waiting to meet the artist who fill them with dreams and candles and give them a voice with a story to tell.

The pumpkins are empty, I’ve heard people say, until they are filled with our dreams of Halloween.

In the field

that I drive by each day

is a field of pumpkins

and sometimes I roll my window down

and I think I can hear the wind

I hope it’s the wind

that sounds like a chorus of screams.

Daily Addictions Prompt: CAPACIOUS

In My Bones

 

When was the last time I dug a grave

told a joke

baked cookies, frosted a cake, got lost on an adventure?

 

It may have been at the end of last Summer

when the leaves began to fall

and the fires roared up North and the smoke turned the Sun blood red.

 

When was the last time I dressed a corpse

waited for a Doctor to sign a death certificate

had a laugh, braided my hair waited watched a meteor shower with my cat?

 

It may have been at the end of a long ago Summer

when the Sun died for a while

and I heard the dusty ground cry in a relief.

 

When was the last time

I saw the fog creep into the cemetery

down the road from where I live?

I think it will be soon.

I know it must be soon.

I can feel it in my bones.

 

Daily Addictions Prompt: Illuminate