Planting Heal

Planting Heal

“Why?”

 she asks,  nose to the earth

“does is take so long to root?”

shivering in the chill morning

of her mending –

Running barefoot from her bed

to the bare patch where she had

scattered her seeds that unspeakable

morning in the snow remembering to

pack the uncovered soil softly with small cold fingers

“When?” 

she asks, nose to the earth

peering, waiting, in the early morning

of this still late winter

“will the plan unfurl and burst those promised

pinks and whites and yellow rows of pretty blossoms?”

and with a tiny growl of her belly – she turns and runs back to breakfast with

grandma – back to the warm kitchen and her mama’s empty chair

~

The Sunday Whirl « weekly wordles

The Sprouting of Seedlings

MALIZ ONG

Scattered

                                                                                s 

                                                                                   e

                                                                                      e
                                                                                         d

                                                                                           l

                                                                                             i

                                                                                               n

                                                                                                  g

                                                                                                    s

pack, huddled

beneath the frozen earth

of her broken life - taking tenuous

root within the cracks of shattered time –

As the earth turns and turns and turns again

fissures fill, heal and gently, with a growl of never-

to- be -restrained - life, crackle-burst into shivering rows

of mending - reaching to suckle starlight from the navied heaven

Finally, finally stilling to quiet peacefulness the constant paralytic thrumming

"why?"

there

is

only now -

a soft simple seeded smile

spreading radiant from inside out –

shimmering the once sere savannah

with hope's green shoots sparkling wet

in the light of this golden newly risen dawn

~

The Sunday Whirl « weekly wordles

soul murder music

Vera Kratochvill

soul murder music

a sudden broken quartet - you and I and our soaring 
shimmered selves  - scattered notes breaking suddenly 

over the green ribbon foreshortened  course of our youth

obliterating the would-be-us  slicing cruel cuts in those velvet 
fields exposing the smashed mirror of slivered hope beneath

flung fragments refracting, reflecting, sharp shards of bright despair

like the sting of flashing riotous wasps

moving into tender skin without warning

your string of words – yep - plenty blunt

burning a brain-brand -your response to my pleas  

like a rival of sea salt on an opened bloodied

wound - your laughter lifted its knife blade again

and again as though it were natural to slaughter my proffered innocence – 
natural to grind my soul in your indifference – 
natural to mill my heart into so much chaff blowing in the wind –

like so much nearly invisible, insignificant flotsam

I lay a dismantled, disoriented, destroyed Job, - lingering on
remnants of the summation of my imagined addition of our one plus one – 
all that remains of the us that never was, and never shall be, is this

broken uncoupled cacophonous quartet
distilled to a single tenuous, tremulous whistle, breaking 
in the darkening sky 

Dust to Green Apple Dust

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Dust to Green Apple Dust 

She strips-standing on a wicker chair

strips for him holding his green bottle by

its neck – easy as he’d hold hers - telling her

not to fuss not that she would when he done

gone to plop spread-eagle, slack-faced ready

to squeeze the life out of her throat if she stops

moving – standing on the wicker chair creaking with

her bare feet –

as might falls and the tower lights come

up in the city sparking light after light until

they shine like a tiara in the distance and she

can pretend, as his eyes shutter-shut sleep rolling

the bottle from 

ham-fist

unfurled

she can pretend that maybe God did make

little green apples and maybe it won’t snow

this year in Minneapolis when the winter comes

and as she pushes the chair back to the table and

pulls on her jeans and tee shirt moves to the baby

crying in the other room – she can pass him sleeping

now – a stray lock of hair falling on his forehead and

believe that she sure was just giving him a bit of fun and his

love is as sure as the sweet green apple dust from which they

both came and where they will all return some day –

some pretty sweet day –

some pretty sweet day –

soon  

~ 

The Sunday Whirl « weekly wordles