Thursday, July 17, 2014


“The moon will carry his candle.”
E. Pound.

I clung for slipping away taste-
a cinnamon in my coffee…
the reflection of vanishing days.

When turned over a corner- I found
new memory, faces, temptation-
old colors and tastes left behind.

New opened up emotions/feelings-
the heavy clouds, smoky and vivid,
yet menacing to leave before
I read the meaning of ‘em in Tarot-

defragmented in small
hail-drop particles
falling on my so delusional

We're here, counting
the eclipses,
hiking to the moon
obscured from the view.

The shadow shrinks,
the moon awaits,
lit the candle,
rolling/turns the facets to
smiley, surprised, sad ones...
out of throat the Earth/school
and all lackluster
honorable mentions
and honor certificates
come alive…

The last curious cheeky
sunbeam peeks in the room
just to witness the fall of million
manufactured bubbles at the ground.

Broken soap dreams
have never existed behind the door…

We walk…stomp-stomp…
remember the joke:
if God wanted us
to have only a head – 
he would created
the buns/kolobok.  

Brenda Warren

Read more at: Sunday whirl


  1. ha. what a close...i rather like peeking under corners to find the old and the new...a taste of each...nice imagery as well on the sun finding its way in as all those soap bubbles pop...they need to be set free to find the wind...

  2. The ones that don't get the gold come alive, fun little video too at your hive

  3. i like the image of the million
    manufactured bubbles at the ground... and i'm all for opening new doors and finding freedom beyond what we think we can do