prompts: lock mock sock war store shore score door lore wake gores glib alight choir

September 6, 2021 to September 19, 2021

from the new moon to the full moon in Virgo

My hair smells faintly of you living in the strands
The memory locks on briefly,
tightens in a playful pull for your reaction

The wolf, starved, eyed the food left at the door of civilization. A steel bowl garnered with rules.

The mockingbird, its acute trills a duality unheard by the wolf, laughed and flew away.

“Try at least three times, really try and without pride, to talk to your friend and try to mend things.”
Grandma’s fingers moved deftly to the clicks of the knitting needles.
She paused to hold the big red sock up to the light.
“Darn it. After that, you might cut ties but don’t carry resentment.
Poison in your well is just as draining as holding on to trouble that can’t be solved.”

Strangers now but wearier, warier specie raised by sponges fashioned into mothers; wolves who left the pack in search of mate finding some single cell finale of fate; it was a self-exiled finality unlike the busy sorting aftermath through war or disease

a shortage of mason jars lids during the pandemic
a well-built corner store on every block
cherries, apple butter, cheese, and greens
lidded, rezoned into brightly packaged
sugar and fat, three for a dollar
leftover cottonseed once dumped in the river

One foot on the shore side of Scylla
A boat of chum, dog toys, and catnip
some chocolate for the lady and the palest hyacinth
matches and a thimbleful of gasoline

The score was 3 to 4:
quarter notes bending into position,
nodding to the stretch
of wholes ready at the relay.
Down the linear track in wait,
a chorus of eighths eager to pace,
excite, divide, and propagate
into a feverish, rapturous finish

This broken heart opens like a ‪door
Death metaphor, transform

Ashes on the floor and a wreath
of nosegays and sycamore leaves

Through the door to deity
Entrance or exit, war or peace

Mr. Wentithird turned, spotted Ms. Theid, smiled, walked toward her, caught sight of her entourage, paled, checked his watch, then eyed the door to the stairwell. For a moment nothing moved but eyebrows: Mrs. Crane’s raised, Miss Applebomb’s left brow arched, and Ms. Theid’s bunched at the browline.

She listened though I’d said nothing worth saying. Even when my words in wake of sleep fell easy,
she never asked me to explain; said the stringing sound of poesy is the only worthwhile philosophy,
so I stayed. As I was never made her student nor patient, I remain.

Grief takes the very mystery of things and mines the awe; leaves you with a ball of unsorted confusion.

It doesn’t bounce or return—there is no further lore; a hard dull carbon thud.

The art, history, and monuments of battle
never quite depict the blood shed
Rivers of ephemeral red
Infernal tributaries of devastated

The noun ‘champion’ gores the verb
from the the peaceful heart of [hu]man

I missed the soft side; he who called looking for lifelines aglitter, to talk in poesy meandering the marveling day: a language-loving philosopher.

I waited for him at the Green Mill, ill-prepared for the glib aloof lounge singer who sang of his own beauty. It was the wrong night for this mood.

The sky, black and blue, through milky haze;
Stars alight on strings of night and candle flames.
Our bodies tucked in beds of softest grass—
light years from the past—
in the spiral of Orion’s arms.

A choir of highs and lows
with all notes stacked
and tween, moves
in untold ratio
with everything

We are resonated fools
in a sea of waves
enduring, brief ballads
fossilizing in the deep

©2021 LAFogle / Lesley Ann Fogle

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