Molten Poetry

Let it burn.

“Will it end like this?”

Dried flower-stained,
imprinted,
and impressed,
the ink pools
in those vellum
page-depressions.

“Answer me, scribe!”

Handmade pulp,
seasonal,
(always artisanal) and
bespoke from mistakes.

I misspoke on the way
my printed life’s diction
caused such friction
that it left a burn
between end
and beginning.

“Scribe!”

There was never
a chronicler, a scrivener,
or a guide.

I wrote the pages of my life.

I pressed the dead flowers
deep inside, and somehow
felt surprised
when the stains seeped
into the page,
into my eyes.

Green is the cover
and green is the iris.


©️ CG Tenpenny, 2018.

The path to Hell
is forked like the
tail of the silver-tongued
devil.

She revels…

amidst the cuts
and crumbs and
licks icing from her
thumbs,

one pass,
simultaneous,
with a split-lick

hiss.

I’m still numb to the cut,
a quarter-piece lost
to the silver-tongued
cake knife

that

she brought.

Do cakes call their
toppings “icing” because
the baker’s last touch
is so damned cold?

I think, once divided,
the cake will never know.


©️ CG Tenpenny, 2018.

Driftwood plank

laid sideways

over the peak

of the stone stake.

Of these, the

fulcrum is made.

I straddle and sway,

each foot, either

end of the plank

(it’s fun in its way)

but I fear that I’m

doomed to break

this elder-wood,

and split the me

upon the razor stake.


©️ CG Tenpenny, 2018.

In my mind
there are ancient dreams
of hopes not achieved.

Fleeting things
that whimsy brings,
but, alas, they, I
cannot reach.

Luscious fruit, above,
the purest water, below,
torture me as I go
along the way forward
to Olympus, unmoving –
my never-home.

I am Tantalus. Immortal.

Or Atys, the father,
immoral, I cooked
poor Pelops and
fed his meat, boiled,
to the Gods, on high,
who drunkenly roared
and roiled.

From Zeus, I’d stolen.

His eternal punishment,
in this deep hole,
leaves me knowing that
Tartarus is boring.

Perhaps Sisyphus
will exchange my
fruit and water

for

the stone he’s rolling.


©️ Tenpenny, 2018.