Toasted Currency

Putting money where the mouth is
hiss, a pat of butter, in the pan
hand-in-hand, crisp bills ready to be fried

wide-eyed & holy belly
jelly spread on toasted currency
tea, pot whistling on the stove top

chop green peppered breakfast,
what-next fantasies, & sprinkle
single most important deal today

allay those hunger pangs as self is served

 

Marian over at runaway sentence challenged me to write another chain rhyme (a challenging, but fun form) this weekend, and here’s what I came up with. Read hers — an homage to The Dark Tower — here. The chain rhyme form was first brought to my attention by Evelyn over at Filling a Hole. Read one of her chain rhymes here.

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Certainly Feeble

Sure foot slips into certainly feeble
needles and pins pierce a walk in the park

lark no less than the sum of its senses
pretenses to scenario’s worst case

bracing self for yet another drab day
way is night falling into rotation

elation at simple pat on the back
pack too much baggage to stay on two feet

Visually Stimulated

Visually stimulated by what we fear
Is inside, yet we claim we will never act
On said impulses, could never bring ourselves to
Let our children become monsters, could not
Even fathom what goes on in the
Numb-to-reality mind of a
Child killer; of all innocence
Evil always at odds with

Median

She will forever be stuck in the middle
diffusing bombs tied off with family wires
radiant, she sits, at the center of the blast
always she was made to carry the weight
of all else above self ever since she was little

tongues find themselves tied in sisterly debate
looking for answers within a blurred past
pounds of flesh, weighing each one’s fate
trying to see through the smoke of memory’s fire
she will always be the one chosen to mediate

and she, she will never be satisfied
a tight rope unbalanced between love and hate
feeding the flames just to watch them grow higher
don’t need to meet the spark to know the flames spread fast
one thing for certain, she will never be denied

both must know salted tears turn sickly sweet
arguing over who is the world’s first liar
the candle is burning the light it outlasts
reconcile, and before the clock ticks too late
kneel, make this bed cozy at mother’s feet

A karousel posted for dVerse Poets Pub’s Form For All by David James.

The War Inside

The war inside
is best fought without armor

no need to get all up in arms
over what you have no hold over

pretend to be a hard-shelled crab
but your meat is so softly vulnerable

cooked from within
charred from inflicted self perfection

hope you like the taste
hope you like it done well

see you within your own personal ring of hell

or choose to be
an alternately colored stain
on an otherwise perfect portrait

embrace blemishes
erupt inner interpretations

be your own disgraced brush stroke
paint your own still
life crashing through bold lines

you know your own, so just already own it