Ritual

I heard the smell of sausage

in between winks and hopeful nightmares.

My stomach turned going left, when I went right.

It turned again to catch up, then growled.

Hunger lingered like a bad habit.

Time to rise.

Feed.

Ease into the day.

Jiggling Words

Nine dreams

Eight hopes

Seven moons

No nightmares

to darken silent hours.

Six letters

Five wishes

Four mockingbirds

to joy a weary soul.

Three rings

Two hands

And a bouquet of roses.

He thinks that she is crazy.

She thinks that he is silly.

Jiggling words to fill silent spaces.

 

 

© 2013 Lynn Marshall-Linnemeier

 

With My Eyes Wide Open

With my eyes wide open I stare

directly into the headlights.

I am tired of all this wrangling,

but not afraid.

Roll around, get tossed around

like old clothes being sorted,

by color, texture and smell.

Something is rotten in the

State of Denmark, but it feels

like it’s coming from the Bushes-again.

A jailbird waving a Bible repents,

his mistress does too,

but the guy in the pink and purple dress,

and the girl in Levis, both sporting  Swiss Army Knives,

and Doc Martin boots

are labeled “Queer.”

All this sorting and categorizing is weird.

So what happens if the labels fall off?

©2013 Lynn Marshall-Linnemeier

Boogaloo to the Robot

I hate to say it but our rhythm is off.

I move to the right, you move to the right.

I move up, you move up.

It’s about call and response

you know rhythm and the counter-balance

or perhaps the chance encounter

that got us moving in the first place.

Almost Got A Way

Visions of paradise

clash with morbid ideas

of milk spilled

on manicured lawns.

Tripped up she pauses,

looks down, drops down, to her knees.

She laps, then slaps,

at the noon day sun,

whose blinding brightness,

obscures her need for comfort.

She cannot move fast enough.

Hoisted up, she clings, wails, then pouts.

Strokes of gentle love

make the world a little better.

She almost got a way.

Eden

An apple landed on her head,

knocking her unconscious.

Upon awakening she found

that he had become snakelike–tongue slithering,

mouth snapping, biting.

He had eaten the apple, worm and all.

She massaged the lump on her head

and the pain of her good intentions.

“I just wanted to be a part of you”, she said.

But he went on yapping

like a hungry pup, accusing her

of building stone walls, anger,

and mixed up messages that clouded

the river of his purity.

She sighed, then remembered

that her life was filled with many things of value-

self esteem, a sunny day, a dew-filled morn.

She left him sitting in the park, rambling on and on

to the ghosts and goblins of his own fear,

typing endless messages on his outdated cell phone.

He knew he was right and she was wrong.

Perhaps had they really talked, things would have been different.

But in today’s world, no one talks when there is a crisis.

©2013 Lynn Marshall-Linnemeier

Overslept

The dust is settling

and I am covered in it.

Like a ghost riding in a caravan

I trace memories on the stagecoach window.

If I could do it differently

I would be indifferent, uncaring.

Rub that sentence out, rewrite:

Backed into a corner, I surrender.

Rub that one out too.

Shake off the dust and keep moving.

That’s the one I like.

I am no ghost.

I am not dead.

“Ticket please,” barks the agent.

©2013 Lynn Marshall-Linnemeier