Tag: Art

If I Were A Flower

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red blue and yellow abstract painting
Art by Steve Johnson via Unsplash

Said blue to the flower, “If I were you,
I’d scatter my petals across the nation–giving
everyone a piece of me.”

The flower looked on, bent its stem,
and scolded blue. “But, you are not
me. You are in the sky, of the ocean,
and the feeling of broken hearts.
I am what people pick when
they want to see a smile on
their loved ones’ faces. I am
fresh pine in the midnight hour,
A statement for a dying soul. I am
lilac & jasmine, clover & rose–the
depth of beauty on a toddler’s fingertips.”

blue listened, eager to understand–yearning
to know just why the flower was so special.

“I am God’s explanation for tears
buried in the sand. You could never be
me, not even if you tried endlessly.”

And with that, blue sat alone with its thoughts.
Its heart beat faster and its eyes grew tired.
The sun tilted its head, leaned over blue’s face,
and lit up its life.

“Maybe I can be the sun,” blue thought.

Used

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Framed photograph on a table showing a couple embracing
Art by Veronica Baranova via Mixkit.co

The picture of them laid against the wall–away from every other memorable thing in their home.

She gathered his belongings, tossed them in extra-large garbage bags, and slung the pile one by one to the edge of the curb.

Fifteen years of them shuffled around in each bag, her heart broke at the thought of it. But, he had his chance. He simply couldn’t commit. And she . . . well, she was tired of being “ringless.”

An ultimatum was given, “Marry me or leave.”

He walked out the door.

come, there is no more peace here . . .

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Painting Wallpaper
Art by Steve Johnson via Unsplash

come, there is no more peace here . . .
not even if you hold your breath
and cling to the idea
that one day soon or in the
distant future, it will reappear.

it has taken leave, hoisted up its
confidence on its shoulders and
walked away with the tears of
every praying Black mother,
every aching heart of Black fathers,
and with the lips of every
Black partner.

no justice. no peace. no justice. no peace.
no peace. no peace. no peace.

if you dream it, it will be . . .
those dreams aren’t for
Black people, we can shout something
into the great beyond and as sure
as the ground is hard, every
verdict will remain one
we fight ourselves about
with the waking breaths of an

angry God who has decided He’s done
picking up the pieces and
can only watch as his children
brutally murder their brothers and sisters

what a sight that has to be for
omnisciently sore eyes.

getting the kinks out

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Massage by Emma Plunket

he hovered over
her shoulders, kneading
the knots from left to right.
she’d been tense for several
weeks worrying about the
impending divorce and
placement of their children.

what happens to a family
when both parents
cheat on each other?
who broke whose heart?
what do you say to
everyone waiting for
the truth when all they’ve
heard are lies?

she breathed a hard batch
of air from her mouth
out to the ether.
the petrissage is always
the best part of her
massage therapy.

she’s in constant need
of getting the
kinks out of
her life.

The Twitter #vss365 prompt word for today is “petrissage” (a massage technique that involves kneading the body.)

talking to the sun while the moon eavesdrops

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sunmoondance
Art by Jr Korpa via Unsplash

 

clouds break before noon,
the wind rushes in and
the two of us sit with
the chill as if
tomorrow plans on
beating around the bush
about showing up.

I hold his hand.
he brushes against
my sun-beaten skin and
tries to steal a moment
with my eyes.

we sit in the glow of
a freshly splattered rain,
sun peeking its head out
while drops fall–Devil’s
beating his wife.
I don’t want to miss
a second of his
green-eyed stare.

I watch the moon as
it hurries in between
sibling clouds, its
intent is clear.
it’s here to stop
our show.

tonight, there will be
no encore.