where are we here when truth

maelable like sivler
its value only point of view
can be made of straw, set to fire,
or mashed in bricks laid where we
step over the broken
in misery
it’s not the gun or the thought of the gun
that keeps me awake at night.
I’ll come back to that later.
I can take what I can take
so there, take down all the clocks
off your walls if you’re gonna push on numbers
for the white sleeved ones
make sure
make sure
Once I was just a dark shadow bursting into a Christmas tree
so my words are just ornament and in season
and I will do all the things that seasons do.
So will you.
LO there!!
re boota meh
what did the text you just got say?
Shortly after the i.v. sedative I said to the nurse
I know there are no guns here
so go get me a scapel right now
like now like jesus told you to do it.
I can’t recall the next thing.
I don’t think he is up there above the clouds,
more like on the wind and in the cold that
runs through you, still disappointed in his son
no doubt.
                                                                     From: Redacted: a fragmented journal
©2015 sunontiepost


Source: Generator

Just discovered this author.  WOW.  Read ALL of her blog and cheer for her awards and upcoming competitions!

Source: Evolution In Rachel’s Garden: pt. 1


Where did my legs go this time?

perhaps, into the waters off Oahu,

Tiger sharks at my feet.


Tonight my loving wife and

my sweet mother won’t sleep

the machines will go beep beep beep.


Yes, count your friends

count them on one hand.

whenever you are ready.


This has been such a long siege.

swallowing pride, choking on pain,

do I really have to do this again?


Eric Clapton’s, “How Long Blues

plays again, I have washed myself up

to wreck, presently to be broken.


Whatever breaks was meant to be

broken. Who said that? Maybe me, I’m

too close to the floor now to write poetry.


This is gonna hurt!

My shoe!

Copyright2015  Sunontiepost*

*a penname*

Note:  Yes, #7 was supposed to be funny.

Choke and swear

waving hands side to side,

just to get my message

past the blood-red tide

coursing in my veins, loosed from

collapsing rooms, that are dark with

dread, always pounding doom.


I come out from behind my eyes.

I can see you from ten feet high,

can’t come down till the

voice inside

says I’m the circle

not the line

drawn across my face

and time.

for Rachel

I almost forget the Foxgloves but

remember them setting the red

watering can down.

Their dark green poise

cries out, wildly, against the canvas of colors

that festoon the deck I call

Rachel’s Garden.

They must be thirsty too, so I

drew more water, more blue crystals

imagining their tender roots reaching in darkness

determined to be strong as above

their long curved lips dream

and drink from the sun.

I pour the meal like rain

coming down over the center as

suddenly the cicadas wake

wind out their song together,

a fluttering ancient whine

from the trees, that also dream,

also drink

I need time to think

hoisting the red watering can in

Rachel’s Garden.

Copyright 2015*Sunontiepost

A shuffle
arms move to some beat

balance that groove
Where are your dancing shoes?

caught in the combine
threshed for good measure
set to burn with the miracles and

you cant sell your life for
money now and the tomb
you came from
caved in

only stones left
filled with fire and
ripe for throwing
reaching for them.

Then lands the first one for
you to realize
you were never here
never were

the whole time




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