Nothing More To Say... (poeTry)

by: a.paige

What to write today,
there's nothing much to say.
"Eyes on the prize," violet's mum berates...
as her daughter masticates.

What to do today,

there's nothing much at bay...

Don't ask me if he prays,

but to Neverland he escapes.

Wonka finds his first gray...

his life's work has no heir...

until he spots a Bucket,

who kept out of his hair.

An old lady without a mane

who has fully paid her way...

now waits there, not to pray;

she has nothing more to say.

A newborn without a name,

his future lies ahead...

Will he face it (take it)—will he pray?

or to Neverland, would he stay?

What to write today,

there's nothing more to say.

Not sure if you'll just pray... (sit there...)

but best be on my way...

Much to write today,

there's nothing more to say.

Not sure which way to take,

but best be on my way.

Much to do today,

there's nothing more to say.

Not sure which way you'll take,

you'll know as you go your way.

Rose Garden.

by: a.paige

Go on. It's okay. You are well now, though you are the sixth child. You have been healed. For whatever reason, life didn't deliver the child before you.

Your mother is reborn; you meant every word you said. The weeding was tough, as though you gutted yourself..., yanking at your heart, which you held even tighter. Oh, the thorns! Still you trusted your mind and did not let it close..., letting it be guided by which you tried so hard to protect..., strengthening their bond, even as you began to release them... The mind and the heart in perfect union now, yet still allowed full independence. To think..., to act..., to feel..., to shed tears... To live again. You watered the barren ground and created a garden. And in offering your heart, your mother has revived hers. You gave her a garden, and a rose has grown there since.

Go on. It is all right now. Grow a rose garden. Write. Paint. Create. There is no one way. But act on it, as with anything else. Go ahead. Plant your seeds. Dig... Water... Prune... Then watch your garden grow.

***For her name is Rose, dedicated to my mother.

Rolling...stoned, la Chanteuse. [poeTry]

by: a.paige

She's so damn bored, she's toned...
She rolls right in so toned...
Yes, she's toned, alright, so stoned.

She screams, “I grew up, I grew up, I'm free!
Independence, ice cream, and mee!
Smile, stretched wide..., it’s mee!

Her followers fuss, “Don’t hate!”

So the legs are spread once more...

She's an artist after all, she’s bored.

So damn bored, she’s toned...

She rolls right in, so blind...

We overthink it, she just does it, so stoned.

The rest of the world, meanwhile,

can’t afford a blind eye this time...

The maidens and the children cry out...

violated by the pervs' cold hands.

They cry out in pain...in vain...

While she s...creams, “It’s mee, It’s mee!

I grew up, I grew up, I’m free!

Molly and Teddy, and mee!”

So spread those legs... High Five!

Don’t think about your goal in life

To make a stand AINT the role to play

Just smile, be yourself..., be mee!

The rest of the world, meanwhile,

can’t afford a blind eye this time...

The maidens and the children cry out...

So spread your wings..., reach out.

Maybe she's really just steeped in pain...

If only she would stretch her hands for help,

not hide behind her painted smile...

Her naked veil reveals the irony.

A real artist, she, her father spews.

Molly and Teddy, stewed...

Maybe he’s right, take a gum to chew.

But the rest of us can see right through.