poems by linda m. crate

murder

she laid buried there 
underneath the point where
the truths started and the
lies began; you all ignored
that as you tittered your
adulations in birdsong as 
if ignoring her dead body
would make it go away 

imbibed leaves burn her
throat, her body would thrash
if she weren't already dead;
her lips the blue of azure skies
dipped in loving white clouds -
still you hold hands and laugh
as if she never existed there;
the lilting songs of disaster 

clinging to her lips in an unsung

hymn that you all feign to have
forgotten; she lays there in a sprawl
of gold and scarlet, her hair the
petals of the sun birthed upon
grey rocks that cover her more
prettily than her fine clothes
torn to tatters by wolves,
you have no silver tears left for her.

unearthed  by shaking hands
some years later, a strip of pink
is the only thing that separates
her skull from that of a wild
animal; his fingers trip over her
syllables like a laughing girl, he
discovers the truth hidden in her
marrow and he is rendered mute. 
- linda m. crate 

cyanide lullabies 

cyanide lullabies cling to her lips
in rivers of red lipstick, she knows
no other color of passion but scarlet -
she chokes on cardinal feathers simply
so she can feel the vibrancy of being 
alive; she does not know that love isn't
a heart attack walking on egg shells or
a victory march, but something a little
less grand yet in it's simplicity even more
beautiful than her lovely dulcet hued lips. 

- linda m. crate

the clock was dead

 
the hands of the clock were fixed -
they could only tell the right time
twice a day; every other hour they

lilted in dulcet tones the exact hour
of impropriety, a weirder shade of
midnight sung on pomegranate seeds;

the eyes of one and two ever staring
in their stained maroon, a garish hue
loud enough to make babies lament.
- linda m. crate

wounded

 
they made their pilgrimage
through the town dotted with
churches, their hearts twisted
in an odd shade of pomegranate 

the memory of love brought back
only bitterness, it left it's stain in
garish maroon hues they could
never wash from their souls, they

recalled the impropriety of the
priests that called themselves men
of God, remembered their sins went
unpunished by men, it brought the

tang of anger darting to their tongues -
silver rain fell upon stained glass
windows, as alms of their anger poured
forth in rivulets of angry words; the

men were happy when they returned
home to a place where only bars had
sprung their wooden hands, drowning
out their disdain with a bit of needed ale.
- linda m. crate  

healing

 
drowned in the ale of silver
rain, she made a promise to
let it wash away the stains of
every garish yesterday that 
had painted her in it's ugly
obsidian hymns sometimes
streaking her with pomegranate
other times with royal blue; 

she took her life back in a
breath of fog, let the white
mist swallow what was left
of her pain; let the rain mingle
with the salt of her eyes, it
made a good fertilizer for
the flowers that grew beneath
her feet in dulcet pastel hues.

she knew that God would one
day heal her broken heart, 
until the doves came she 
would sit here in the field as
she sipped on the liquor of 
the clouds; letting the pain
blossom forth so it could be
washed away by wet fingers.

- linda m. crate