Tuesday Writing Prompt Challenge: February 19, 2019

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Devereaux Frazier and Beth Amanda are currently hosting the Tuesday Writing Prompt Challenge which was started by our star writer Christine Ray. We hope to offer all of you something that will spark your creativity and willingness to participate.

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Today’s Prompt: Write a piece using the phrase explicit emotion

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i am mad at God

/ mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

i am mad at God
for making me a fool
for using my stupidity
and evil deeds against
myself

i am mad at God
because He loves me
in a way that i can never
love all these creatures
around me

i am mad at God
for He laughs at me
in a loving way as He
kicks my ass when i
fuck up

i am mad at God
for keeping score
to a game that i will never
win

i am mad at God
and in spite of my
silly lip quivering
and monkey manipulations
He waits with hand
extended for me to
climb

scars

/ mbrazfieldm / 9 Comments

i want to kiss your scars

but because i am not a siren

with shapely hips and meaty mouth

to give you drink of goddess wine

i cannot have your lips

i want to kiss the scars

left in your eyes as she robbed you of your light

let my tiny spark as weak as it may be

polish the lens of your outlook

of better days to come

i want to kiss your scars

savor one second of your misery

turning my back on a million days of paradise

so long as you are with me

beloved, i want to wash her painful

judgments from your ears

and pray the angels speak to you

from God’s own soothing verse

i want to kiss your scars

the ones thickly padded on your knees

and with my dreadful feeble arms lift you from yourself

to watch you walk away so as you travel

i can see the scars that i may kiss

Oh! your tired back

and gift you with my humble blood

to enrich your waxing path

i want to kiss your scars

and stop the hemorrhaging of your heart’s capacity

to hope

and with my graceless ugly hands nurse it back

birth a brave new rhythm

knowing that this heart of yours

will never sing for me

i want to kiss your scars

and make you king

while my tired trembling mind will unravel them

one after the other

and let the Moon

in her magic and love

dress you in her finest garb

i want to feel you soar

my love

with wings of gods ascended to Heaven

and as my temple fades away into the caverns of the lost

in your cloak of scars i’ll lay

knowing that you are whole again

a broadway revival

/ mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

crawling, burnt with Holy Spirit at the foot

          of the great Hall.

                             hot, no finger pointing

at the crossroad of the Elysian Dam

                 and that dusty quenchless sea.

        fire, light unbearable

to those two brown eyes that hunger for voice.

an only champion

    of beggar’s bowl and head lice cause.

           circumstance only for

                    her lungs.

     let the air flow in

as liberty swings too low to launch our mystic to truth.

                 He has told you,

       now you listen.

inherit the earth underneath your nails,

              and feed on recycled prayers,

while the horses gallop with broken hoof       past the curfew of the silent night.

birth and death in august

/ mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

when time collects the bag

it has to be in august.

b and i came into it,

w and j left out of it.

the Sanskrit glows on sacred

bricks. the faces, the silence;

crystalized into three ages.

chainlink thorns on sides made

of pain.

black heads blue eyes

to the east lays paradise.

to the west blue dreams

dunked into the black ocean.

mother crowned you prince with bone splints,

but father did not sup with you.

courtly sun king alone out loud;

in a dream that no one’s seen.

once you went to sleep

your soul did not recover.

no blood dies at 700,

early in the new world.

oh heart of hearts,

your star hangs above the floor.

third age in youth you left,

the somber august came in haste.

to Jean-Michel Basquiat

downtown breeze

/ mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

then one more time

                  she comes, tip toes like a

hunger on the Hill St. bridge

but does not offer her love pang to me

             orphaned i stand of the

                      ideals i’ve had

             for ever it seems

                 she enters and

leaves unimpressed

as always

5 spot m

/ mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

brown pigeons crap on the hollow sidewalk

the old Chinese woman waves her hand

wills their Jackson Pollock orchestrations

by feeding them week aged beef stir fried fare

the gin and tonic mixture of my youth

roughly flows through decrepit portal veins

fifty-year old girl tells me what she wants

easy with my ductus deferens

sip a drink of shame no olive in sight

politely decline her proposition

of five spot love while i wonder away

from Magdalene of little Italy

strolling towards the ragazzo mios

void of all holy penance in this world

briscula my only love lady fair

death walks quickly on J Pershing square

wasted

/ mbrazfieldm / Leave a comment

on the inside of the room
the floor is my alter
laying down my hands
again i surrender
with a wet smile upon my face

none was wasted in the
empty harvest of the heart
and the milky way is far
from me in this hour
i most desire

most in your opinion
was the thrift that
you did lay and probationary
periods of my feelings
judged to be abstained
from me forever