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Sticks and Stones






Sticks and stones break more than words may bleed.




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A Stone in the Belly of a Small Girl.

She collected meticulous fine art
in flat smooth stones with round granules
pink lined with white, almost readable
to the touch. She smelled each word
as a memory pasted, small pieces
inside her belly.

Once she told her mother, "There is a stone in my belly."
Met with laughter for not understanding
the meaning of stone soup,
she grew whispering silence,
"There IS a stone in my belly."

One year passed, she felt empty breath
would allow the stone to speak,
then the next, but only she could hear
its tongue tied images of wrapped bodies
in a pool of heated water, spinning
till she felt her lungs collapse.

With each added ingredient
the stone grew like an unborn child
and spoke through her of searching
for another stone to break itself
against, to be set free from pasted
misconceptions of memory's puzzle
pieced cement.

She had smothered its smoothness.

Sun flew into bat winged night for a time
and she forgot the stone lay growing angry,
misleading her into other futures, allowing
her dreams to dance behind her eyes.

Swimming naked under a fully clothed sky,
it grew heavy to her touch, pulled her body
into black blue water and filled her nostrils
with cold nothing. She arose remembering,
"There is a stone in my belly."









The wild child with no vision
only touch, feeling
and ambition
conquers fears without blinking
salty baby girl tears
into the wind that has betrayed only one
too many times who knew too much
about slighted glances and silvery rescues.
Misfortunes embraced ignorance blissful
thinking, giving words
not meant
but take em they are free
and will be sweet
when you need them
and break your heart
when you don't much like her,
again
rooms empty for filling
or stuffing the insides
with imagined fairies
and witches seduction.


A Pure Black Hole

Black holes in space inspire writers
to imagine being consumed by nothing,
nothing to feel against the skin, nothing
to hear with deaf ears, nothing to be.
Comforting for minds that think ants
are beautifully perfect creatures for
building and rebuilding the same home
after being destroyed by small feet.

Black holes in human minds inspire writers
to fill them with words that charm, seduce
even induce the greatest fear of sweat
heated tears that burn skin with their
acid perfection. Comforting for minds
who think fairies could exist in rosebuds
and magnolia blossoms are a sign
that softness can be found in hard wood.

Black holes inside my mind are pure,
they are filled with nothing, show
no feeling against my skin and burn
in perfect harmony as they spin
inspiration for writers.
Comforting for a mind who believes
lost little girls should always keep
their treasures far away from innocence.





Somethings, everything,even anything gives hope when nothing joins shadows to fight wars inside bleeding sweat, abducting sleep,pillaging burned trusting shelter from the cold fires of sun.

Holding breath to avoid being noticed while the heart beats louder than the train that goes behind my house everyday.




Then there is
the one, the only
misled fool always
invaded by sticks
and stones that broke
every dish in the house,
and still love.
Still.
Still,
love the maker of dreams
who twists around
fingers and weaves
in and out of hearts,
regardless of words
eant to be true or false,
erasing with a pencil
like a greasy stain
remaining when the sun
hits the glass just right.

Growing Pains
Words whispered from the past

Email me on:
Whsprbreth@aol.com

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