POEM: “Intoxication”

image of fallen drunk showered by gold

Intoxication

My broken brain

lets memory fall through

the cracks, the fissures

of forgetfulness, crowded out

by newly made imaginings

.

Drunk on ink

I love to lose control

all sense of time 

and composure

to the images, 

the voices calling out to me

the words I’ve yet 

to press into each page

.

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Since today is Black Friday, traditionally the beginning of the holiday season, I thought I’d post something a little more lighthearted. Please, if you need to go out this weekend, be careful. Stay safe and well!

*

In the interest of Black Friday, I’m also offering 

(while supplies last) 

BLACK FRIDAY/CYBER SATURDAY ONLINE SPECIAL: 

DIRECT FROM AUTHOR ONLY

https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/authorcatrussell

my poetry collection, Soul Picked Clean

$12 $10 with free shipping within the Continental USA

my short story collection, 

An Optimist’s Journal of the End of Days and Other Stories

$29.95 $25 with free shipping within the Continental USA

OR 

BOTH BOOKS for $30 

with free shipping within the Continental USA

autographed upon request

*Don’t forget to include your mailing address in the PayPal note section, as well as any special instructions if you would like an autographed copy.

**Offer good only Friday, November 27-Saturday November 28th, 2020.

My books are also available through Amazon, although this special deal does not apply to Amazon purchases.

POEM: “A Short Series of Haikus Falling Like Autumn Leaves through Fading Sun”

A Short Series of 

Haikus Falling Like Autumn 

Leaves through Fading Sun

.

Not the burning bush but

a flaming tree ignited

by God’s dying breath

.

Golden leaves outstretched

to capture sunlight within

this darkened tunnel

.

Trio of vultures

survey sunken waters from

their damned concrete perch

.

Deer peer from wooded

shadows, play hide and seek with

sleek metal killers

.

Bromfield’s ghost haunts

Malabar Farm’s gift shop from

within printed pulps

.

A roadside market

beckens with the promise

of great hanging gourds

.

The cliff’s deep beauty,

once its origin is known,

falls like a sharp drop

.

Daytime’s pattern strobes

across my retinas as

the highway unfolds

.

A wooly welcome

waits on our concrete driveway

worming its path home

.

Rhythmic heat beneath

cool sheets steam windows viewing 

the summer’s last gasp

.

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The above string of haikus was inspired by a family daytrip to Mohican State Park, with a series of stops along the way.

.

*image courtesy of publicdomainpictures.net via Creative Commons Licensing.

POEM: “Diana Prince for President”

Photo by Roy Reyna on Pexels.com

Diana Prince for President

No Blue No Matter Who

but someone brave and true

an Independent candidate

her only mandate:

to heal the world.

.

Instead of quick fixes, cures

Instead of ignorance,truth

Instead of violence, peace

Instead of hatred, love

.

No need of accoutrements:

lasso, bracelet, or tiara.

Her character’s unimpeachable.

.

Steve Trevor could be her VP.

POEM: “Autumnal Love”

Autumnal Love”.

evening songs tattoed

across an autumn breeze

.

a golden sky’s nutbrown breath

leaves pepper the air

.

birds prepare to flee the coming freeze

frost’s first exhale boldens the winds

.

the burgundy and orange world 

crunches beneath our feet

.

no wonder we call this season

fall

.

*image courtesy of publicdomainpictures.net via Creative Commons Licensing.

POEM: “Fatal Foam”

Photo by Vova Krasilnikov on Pexels.com

Fatal Foam

.

Worship the sun’s holy rays.

Cleanse yourself in poisoned waters.

Foaming bubbles like a bath

must bleach away your sin,

tickle your chin, bathe your chest.

.

Boat through foaming blights.

Laugh as they burst against you,

your face, your lips, your tongue,

your lungs inhale the corruption.

.

A transformation not to be wished,

this striking contrast, this union of opposites,

as your blood red robes trail behind 

in the sparkling snow white ooze.

.

Put your life on the line for a beautiful moment

a breathtaking snapshot of devotion

hastening your own decay

.

We shake our heads at your tragic folly

tucked snugly into our own burning beds.

.

.

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*inspired by news of Indian worshipers ritually bathing in the Yamuna river, a river covered with toxic foam from industrial waste.

POEM: “5am Derelict”

grafitti
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

5am Derelict

.

I make the predawn turn

on the way to my husband’s work,

note the same tall building

we pass every time:

window treatments of particle board,

graffitid exterior spray painted

to match the neighborhood palette.

.

I think of the apocalypse:

such a building would well serve

to barricade against a plague

of our own making,

keep out the undesirable

as we shelter ourselves

from those we cannot see.

.

Then I realize, we do that

already.

POEM: “Original”

Original

.

I sip poetry with my tea,

it seeps out like sun through a window,

it leaks through my fingertips.

I breathe in each page,

I live in these words.

.

Can I claim my voice as my own

when nothing comes of nothing?

There is no sound in a vacuum.

.

Can my whisper be heard

above the roaring wind,

or am I part of the chorus?

POEM: “A Bee Sucking Honey”

close up photo of honey comb
Photo by Archana on Pexels.com

A Bee Sucking Honey

 

Leaving is so hard to do.

A million things call me back

from this respite from the drudgery

of my life’s day to day to day.

 

I sip honey words dripped

from fragrant tongues, flutter

from one to the other

as the dial quickly ticks on by.

 

My time is over. I’m called away

back to toil and tedium, but

my feet, stuck in viscous sweet syrup,

slow this unwelcome parting:

 

I am an insect caught in amber,

unable to tear herself away.

 

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I’ve been feeling very nostalgic lately, and the above poem was inspired by my attendance at multiple poetry readings last year. Hopefully, we’ll all be able to attend them again soon. In the meantime, stay safe, stay well, and read often!

POEM: “My Wildest Dreams for Them”

astronaut-1494235737Eu2

My Wildest Dreams for Them

 

that live in the future

are pretty predictable.

I’d like to say what

a humanitarian might:

that my descendants

live in a world of peace

free from disease and distress.

But what I really want,

I mean the very first thing

that popped into my brain,

was that my great grandchildren

would live on Mars

with robot servants

but the kind of robots

that are smart enough

to fulfill all their basic needs

without violating the pesky

ethics of unpaid labor

performed by sentient species,

and also they’d win Nobel prizes

(my descendants, but not

the robots–although I don’t

see why not) in literature,

maybe become

Martian Shakespeares

encapsulating their era’s

Martian-humanoid

culture for generations to come,

long after their own demise,

so that everyone could

devote themselves to art

and science and poetry

and beauty and also spend

Sunday afternoons sipping tea

between monster-movie marathons

because what’s the point

in an ideal future

if you can’t have a little fun?

 

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Since my second book, An Optimist’s Journal of the End of Days and Other Stories, is due to be published via Venetian Spider Press this coming Tuesday, I thought I’d post a scifi-themed poem in honor of its publication. I hope you enjoyed it!

 

*image courtesy of publicdomainpictures.net via Creative Commons Licensing

POEM: “To The Poetess”

GreekStatueNudeWoman

To The Poetess

epic battles of heroes on bloody foreign fields

or gods meddling in the lives of men and women

were not subject fit enough for your sweet lines.

 

instead you delved deep into the bittersweet

affairs of human hearts,  the union of souls,

the intoxication of lovers sharing the common cup.

 

your words like wine lingered on the lips

of ancient vocalists thirsting for vintage reds

singing verses you cultured long ago.

 

your gleaming feast of words filled from apple trees

you strode by long ago as honey breezes blew waves

through your shining locks. your bold steps soon followed.

 

your words are only known to us from ancient admirers

or from torn and tattered fractions lining paper mache coffins.

How great your work when fragments alone

grant you immortality.

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I wrote this poem last month when I was reading a free ebook, The Poems of Sappho, via manybooks.net

* image courtesy of publicdomainpictures.net via Creative Commons Licensing