Noise and surf
blown over,
I remember
Shade of flowers,
they look very mismatched
in my corner here
These city streets
ebb and flow like the sea,
let me
A close shave
of thighs,
my window's je t'aime
I must have walked out —
my nose choked
~with the rain~
Seconds pause.
please remember
the seconds of flowers.
five bees blossom dance...
hovercraft buzz bush roses -
stolen honey dew
~~~~~~~~~
(combing the crop)
I comb the banshee’s long hair
until she is calm and silent.
She is older
than the lowest barren hills.
Then,
a young girls voice
issues from her open mouth.
“Daddy.”
I’m not her daddy,
No one knows her father,
unless it be the ever-wailing winds.
“Daddy” her voice is getting louder,
ceiling light-fixtures begin to tremble,
a picture jumps to its death
from a cringing wall.
“Stop it! No one knows anything!”
The banshee dissolves into tears
and silence.
Moments come and go,
the locked house door, swings open
with a shattering crack.
A little girl is at my front step –
the screeching from her mouth
is mind-shattering. terrible.
Seagulls drop like stones from the sky.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An Irish myth. Some interpretations say that combing the Banshee’s hair
is the only way to stop her life-threatening bewailing.
She is said to foretell of death, but who or what is unclear.
This post might lead the reader to think of child abuse, at least I hope so.
The beautician frowns in the mirror.
She stops combing.
I think she has found a tick.
I get them frequently. I live in the country.
Why would you have paint in your hair? She asks me.
I am a painter, I tell her.
She gives me a look I have not seen since my mother died.
I have to laugh.
An ethereal vision
Iridescent her hues
Locks of spun gold
A mermaid I'm told
This mythical creature
from Atlantis it's been said
In the blink of an eye
In the minutest breath
In the tenderest heart beat
I was feeling bereft
Did I really catch a glimpse
or was it wishful thinking
Searching the horizon
with eyelids a blinking
No signs were left
There was nothing - no inkling
As searching in vain
For proof she had been there
upon some distant rocks
gently combing golden locks
21st September 2019
Contest Name: MERMAIDS
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Contest Strand Select 10
Sponsor Brian Strand
HONOURABLE MENTION
The joy in my heart can't be explained
Sorta like when you get your first choo-choo train
Well I stand up to pee
Discovered have no teats
Which made sense, started combing my mane
Fenced off with a comb
New age sand crab’s beachfront home
Cup of styrofoam
By Robb A. Kopp
All Rights Reserved © MMX
Blue tides going out
Moonlit sands beneath my feet
Sea breeze kissing my cheek
By Robb A. Kopp
All Rights Reserved © MMX
I comb thy noblesse, in that some lost hurt
might bring thee sorrow, choosing some avert -
a random's borrow to then so divert,
God's asking of our faith, to so invert
our courage, from His marrow of exert.
I comb the gray to know my own alert,
in functioning abuse from its framework.
Would guide me forward then to not berserk
my soundness, in thy Holy needs' concert.
I comb exactness, from its true cost's blurt,
an over action of confining skirt,
that harbors definition by insert.
I comb resourcefulness from feelings curt,
to truth's contraction, without haste's overt.
That Godly sanctioned glory not desert,
of calling's minded motion, nor revert -
I comb my love for thee, that tangled worth,
that faith and understanding give new birth!