From Soul to Soles

Rising from ashes,
or so the story goes,
the Phoenix of legend,
from the ashes, rose.

She was renewed,
reborn, given a chance
to find a new truth –
a new soaring dance.

What does this all mean?
Surely, this bird of fire
was never a real being…
but metaphor or parable from liars?

We need the Phoenix to fly higher.

Her nest, lay within our chests,
ashen ruins of lives riven,
like eggshells cutting pink flesh.
We survived. We are alive

because a spark glows
where our hearts once lay.
When our wings unfold,
arms, fire-filled, ablaze,

match the tail-feathers,
from Soul to soles,
stepping, burn forever,
as our Phoenix eyes glow.

Reborn, we know… reborn,
we burn brightly, shining like
the stars, as the morning
Sun rises, we, the Phoenix,

will match his heights
and fly so much higher.


©️ CG Tenpenny, 2018.

A Myriad Of Burn Scars

Stir the coals
within my chest.
Some embers burn
and flame-lick the rest.

My lungs, bellows,
bellow sparks from
my mouth when I yell out,
release the burning breath
that speaks my truth
but leaves me scorched,
agonized, and bereft.

“Oh, what heat is left? Havoc-wreaked,
my appetite, dissatisfied, leaks fluid
like the quenching oil from the barrel.”

I am wrought, like steel,
burned by the ways, a myriad,
I’m left to feel.

The tongue-anvil,
rings truth, when the
word-hammer strikes at you.

Depress my chest,
with vice, embrace,
or death, and the fire,
stoked, will be free
to rage, white-hot,
molten, engine-oil
smoking, as I spew
and spit, charcoal, grit,
and molten splatter

from my lips.


©️ CG Tenpenny, 2018.

Dear Maiden

Hold me fast,
dear lady.

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Eons of Fate

Silk, burlap,
hemp, or cotton,
perhaps satin,
wool, or others
forgotten, the loom
whips, furious,
under the gaze
of its mistress,
a Fate,

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The Television Screams

The television screams
its rage into the room
from its elevated stage.

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Let Fly in Measures

Blurry dreams
of waking things
touch like feathers
on the sleeping me.

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The Small Things

One touch is all it takes…
the light caress
upon your cheek
reminds you
of secret things
you need.

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From Seven to Ten

Between sunrise
and setting,
I feel myself begging
for a reprieve from
the heat, the sweating.

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Sea Salt

Seas, sea salt,

see, the walls.

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Aching Hands

My hands ache
with age.

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Hope Lightly

…and we rise,
high,
soaring,
unchained,
bright in
the night.

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The One Mirror

Mirrors can lie…

Whether by
cruelty or trying
to show us our
beauty.

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