Tucked Palms- Daffni Gingerich

I’ve tucked my palms into the pockets of my coat because I’m tired of thinking about them. They’re driving me crazy those lines, those lies, the lack of expectation. There’s no tight rope. There’s no hope. There’s no flame flickering from afar. There’s a sky and a sea. And you can hear the hushed judges hiss with serpent tongues. They burrow into your skin and into your brain until a candle flickers where it shouldn’t and a tightrope is strewn only into tomorrow. Never present, never today, and never to the soul. And if it has no soul it’s of no use to me. No use at all. So I waiver from light to light from certainty to uncertainty. . .


Daffni Gingerich says simply that she “is a writer.” You can read more of her mesmerizing prose at Daffniblog.

Dawn – Howl Davies

[A note from Howl: Inspired by a piece of autobiographical haikus by Christine Ray of Brave & Reckless. She reminded me how fun haikus were, and how they’re a great solution to a full on creative block.]

I admire the way
the dawn rolls and recreates
adjacently blind

To the half-drunk boys
and the half-heartbroken girls,
trying to forget

The gristly encore
it’s delayed in its showing
yet it comes around

Not before a glimpse
of the spotlight matinee,
le Cirque du Soleil,

Cleansing rituals
to please the gods of the day
to polish the soul

Justification
belongs in daylight, just as
transgressions, the night

And dawn pulls the rope
lifting curtains for each act
blind, deaf, and silent.


 

[Howl Davies is the ringleader at The Sounds Inside.]

Sol,ace-Olde Punk/RamJet Poetry

It’s the sol, ace.  Big smiles and warm greetings that feel like beatings.  I know they are happy.  I am happy 4 but not 2.  I feel like Coltrane on the nod.  I love the beginnings.  Fae magic and beautiful garb.  Decorations, flowers, music and food.  The Russians are tied to it.  My healthcare is welfare but it costs a pretty penny.  There’s a red velvet carpet and we prance down it like we are being awarded Oscars.  I met a man who runs guns in Chicago.  He smokes Cubans and black clove cigarettes.  There is a warning that echoes in this sanctuary.  It’s the soul, ace.  The bee’s knees.  Craving ICE at the reception as the alcohol seeps out of my skin.  Everyone smells of gasoline and rancid meat.  It makes me malcontent.  If only love stayed this pure and fresh!  You can drink it a few days past the expiration date.  After that though, scars and regrets.  The loss of words.  The lessening of the vocabulary.  The erosion of communication.  The little flower girl is very cute.  My cousin’s daughter is elfin.  My own sweet child is dressed for the stage, a Shakespearean protagonist.  So many loose conversations with mead on the tongue.  A loud and boisterous reception.  They’re all still talking about building this wall.  I’m sure it will be a big, strong wall.  We are all very adept at constructing them.  It has been unnaturally warm but serendipitously, it is a perfect spring day for a wedding.  If only love remained the same as the first day of the rest of your lives.  It’s the sol, ace.  Behind a setting.  Live it as hard as you can when you find it.  The soul, ace.  It all begins to go down eventually.


Olde Punk writes RamJet Poetry