Where am I?

The weeping Southern skies can’t promise to choke me humidly.

The rising stars refrain from performing to crickets and frogs.

Abandoned is the sinkhole of basal intent to protect!

I lay unfamiliar in a bunk bed I don’t own; reeling

I am packed tight in the blankets like my luggage.

The air (thank you Kay) is different here; archived scents

I watch walls blooming colors warm with sunset, not Volunteers

My breath keeps coming but I’m still holding it,

The weeping angels of Southern skies wave; I love them

I blow a “kiss my ass” back at those who stole illicitly from me

But that’s barely a toot of air forgotten after a pizza bird

The process will digest as slowly as Mayfield milk gravy.

NaPoWriMo: Valued Activities in My Poetry

Experience, Embrace, Enjoy

Southern Spring

Southern Spring

The winter haints poke billowy chill
In the clouds that pass my window sill
My sight obscuring by the white washed flowers
Coaxed from sleep by rumbling showers
I release my heater from whimpering to silent
As the spring rains come with stormy violence
I creep my window up inches by foot
Dependent on if the weather is good
The dogwoods bark perfume
As the red-buds come to bloom
The lazy flowering magnolia trees
Smell like Southern backyard orgies
I heed the spring promising summer lawns
With the haints of winter fading
Now
Gone.

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