Warm Worm

Photo by Krystian Piątek on Unsplash

Warm Worm

Moss-heavy limbs fall from charge
of a warm southern wind
rest in a compost graveyard
of other arms that have been

Once boasted of leaves
awarded with weighted sog
You might pray if awarded knees
The warm low water releases a fog

Time will turn you into swamps breath
and a story told around the table
As the matted hair of a beggars sets
as sure you’ll become a fable

Draw out the white worm that hides in the gut
with a warm bowl of cream
Demand it to uncoil from the inner glut
the foreign body within a scream

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~By Shannon Laws

Poem: Votive

Votive

by Shannon P. Laws

 

Candle burns into a puddle of cinnamon

Flame sorts through the fallen

 

A pile in the back of the yard

The unusable parts of me

 

Makes way for stalks

To break burnt soil

 

 

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Poem: Cheap Requests

pop-culture-religious
Celebrity prayer candles

The catholic prayers of my father rise with

Smoke from a veladora wick

Sanctuary Series

Assorted Saints only $19.99

 

Repeating parts that turn

In a truck engine hum idle outside

It is not the wind

Not the ocean

Not the rain

As murmurs groan request

Sets me in a day dream.

An atom beat the seconds long

before my creation.

 

A prayer is

an oscillating motion, close to clever.

Monks and Sisters repeat a rhythm played

on plastic rosary chimed by fingernails.

Movement marked by the regulated

succession of strong or weak of faith—

to void—Sung prayers paid to jump-start

the interest of a saint.

 

Offered to You

My ghostly priest

I hold a secret:

When no one is looking

I keep right.

-SPL

Picture 273
My Jesus veladora in action.

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Winter Prayer

This morning the sky changed.  The wind came from a different direction than what I was used to, catching me by surprise and creating a sense of curiosity within me.  The trees I walked under moved and swayed to the song of the wind, making for a lovely dance.  The wind combed threw the branches and low lying bushes to grab up the dead and recently fallen, blowing them around in whirlwinds.

A curious thing to watch the wind.  It’s true you cannot see IT but only what it DOES.  My skin grows wrinkled and dry by it; my hair lifts and twirls falling into my eyes.  “Don’t look at me, just feel me” it says, “I’ve come to wash off that which is dead and refresh you for a cold winter, to prepare you for a new spring.  Your days of summer lying in a warm breeze will return, but first you must feel me against your face.  Feel me hit your heart, swooping in deeper than any soap, cleansing your soul with hope renewed.”

Hope gets us through the winter.  How sad for those in the dark age when the world seem a constant winter.  Perhaps they had forgotten what spring flowers smelt like or the hot rays of the summer sun on their face.  If winter last too long the heart will stay cold, frost bitten, hard.

Prayer
Fall wind please blow on me and release from me the dead and dying parts.  Twirl them up to the sky, lay them on the ground, churn them into soil, all that death is good for.
Take those parts from me so that I might see spring again.
I will not forget the flowers
I will not forget the summer sun.
I will not forget the green grass and the lazy days lying beside a lover

Blow wind blow!
Do your worst so that my reward will be greater!

***
Came across this poem from Winter 2011.  It’s only October but had to re-post.