Stilted House

Baba Yaga's House
This is missing chicken legs

I live in Baba Yaga’s house

My life presses up against the windows

threatening to explode into a thousand bits & pieces

It’s like trying to complete a call on Christmas morning

I live with Baba Yaga’s siren

All-knowing; All seeing; All brimstone’s gift

I watch attentively for non-existent patterns

Sometimes warp, weft, and weave draw-in

She flashes me what to know

She whispers, “We are sisters.”

She made me bend my knees

As I consider her value against my own worth

I know that together wisdom shall come

It is by my right of birth

Blueberry Pancakes

I love blueberry pancakes.

the ones my dad makes for me

when I get to spend the night.

They are emotions spread into 6″ rounds

with bubbly edges stained purple.

It’s how he tells me

“You mean so much to me.”

or

“I love you berry much.”

That’s not him, that’s me.

It’s the connection with a father

MY DAD that worked hard

so she wouldn’t have to.

It’s the flavor of buttered syrup

a modicum of sweet drizzled

over bruised blueberries

bubbling more

than some battered fruit

The stacks of his generous heart

tower over the platter

that he places on the table

solid, like him, dependable,

sturdy as stock he stands

I accept his gift as he tells a joke

with the punchline

strategically placed

in middle the middle

Diamond and Pearl

For only one as rare as this could be uniquely pure.

The diamond attended to the pearl

born magic in a mundane world

The truth made in error,

filled hearts with deep terror

As the sapphire dismantled the girl

The pearl cast herself before swine

which caused her to cross a line

Denying her birth

she refused her worth

She ran til she unhinged her mind

The diamond polished the pearl

comforted the horrified girl

No longer in error

soothed away terror

Returning her holy to the world.

Highland Hill

The trio of bicycles barreled down the hill

The leader, arms flowing out behind him like a superhero cape

He Whooped and hollered joyously

As he careened bullet speed

Breathlessly gripping handlebars solid rescue

But only when the fear became overwhelming

His second, perhaps best friend,

Chased after the first bike reverently

Reckless, he is not; brave he be

The frightening freedom pulses wildly

From the words of the “safe” straggler:

“Oh my God!” Is Doppler effected

They are clearly exhilarated; shaken (not stirred) like Yahtzee dice

Throwing winds of change behind them

They push the envelope between light and dark

Like when the streetlights come on

When it’s five minutes more stolen: of living fully

The Church Sky

Pistachio, Tangerine, Azure, and Fire Blossom

What flavor of holiness would be found behind those doors?

Who would lay prostrate upon the prayer matted floors?

Could you lay down your weapons as if you were sore

rejecting all violence against those who’re po’or

Would the doors open outwards with sweeping embraces?

Did you hear the call to prayer staring out at your faces?

Where do your feet run to at such furious paces

Suit up and move in to glory’s good graces.

Evening Drive

the mustang muscles

its way up the hill

Revs past the

Second hand drinkers

Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock

That felt like limericks

But tasted like limes

The color hunter green arrow

Green arrow

Or spring leaf

or envious Kermit

or shambles of zombies

This ride is taking

A length

of extraordinary time

Skipping music like rock(s)

Or The Stones

or cowboy lasso

Contributing artist: Eric B. Bishop