The Murder

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The Murder

It was a murder
perfected and performed
flashes of black
diving after scurrying figures
nowhere to hide
the violence
silent and quick.

A high scream
pierced the autumn air
flesh torn from bone
blood gushing forth
eyes glazing
as the heart stops
extremities twitching.

When all is picked clean
the killers move on
some bodies are carried away
most are never found
all of it murder.

Some call it survival
the others-
nevermore.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2017

I wrote this about my animated photo of crows taken on a bicycle ride.

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Secrets From The Soil

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Secrets From The Soil

Egyptian mummies
rest in beautifully decorated sarcophagus
some inlaid with gold and gemstones
bodies prepared with spices and care
organs put into decorated clay pots
sealed for thousands of years
until found and studied by museums
spilling secrets from the soil
causes of death and life revealed
visualizing every feature and amulet
some mummies stand naked in groups
some are left as they were found
we see the faces, foods, and belongings
of these ancient people from our past
teaching us about life while celebrating death
while death teaches us about life.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2017

Written for dVerse~Poets Pub hoping I’m not too late since it’s Wednesday! I’ve been very busy not meaning to take off weeks of writing but I’m back. Life has a way of just happening while time flies. This is my animation of an image I found for the poem. Soil brings us so many things!

Nothing Personal

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Nothing Personal

I amble down
a road less traveled
a path is discerned
almost telepathically
I inch my way along
somewhat cautiously.

Mossy growth glistening
marching through the woods
mounting an invasion
against the trees.

The damp smell of death
permeating my senses
life mirrors nature
nature’s way is survival
nothing personal.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2013

A poem from my past posted for Earth Day. Also a nod to Robert Frost. Linked in the nick of time with dVerse~Poets Pub.

Kiss Of Death

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Kiss Of Death

So beautiful and rare
in death a kiss so fair
it makes the corpses jealous
their eyeless sockets stare.

An eternity in your arms
my angel wings boned bare.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2015

Another blast from the past (something a little different) shared with Poets Untied. This is a wallpaper meant to be shared and had no artist information like most wallpapers found to share online.

Hitler’s Bathtub

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Hitler’s Bathtub

I dreamed I took a bath in Hitler’s bathtub
he told me it would be better than taking a shower
I got a fluffy towel instead of an unmarked grave.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2017

War correspondent Lee Miller taking a bath in Hitler’s own bathtub, inside his abandoned apartment. The photo was taken on the same day that Hitler committed suicide. Munich, Germany – April 30, 1945. I got this image from a Google image search wrote about and animated it.

Written for the prompt irony at dVerse~Poets Pub.

The Harvest

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The Harvest

A lone figure was watching the scene unfold
as a young deer crossed the busy highway
it was a beautiful morning.

The truck swerved and disintegrated
sending shrapnel everywhere
sparks flew from scraping metal
the driver was killed instantly.

His truck slammed into a woman’s car
she barely saw it happen-too fast to react
her windshield breaking glass flying
it was the last thing she saw as she died.

Sticky warm blood leaks, drips, and pools
the smell of gasoline was strong
cooling metal making ticking sounds
dead muscles twitching.

The car was unrecognizable
tangled with the truck
the deer mutilated and decapitated
airbags were deployed but did no good
it seemed like forever sirens in the distance
the ambulance was first but the corner was called
firemen and police were busy trying to pick up the pieces.

Death was chuckling as he watched the spirits rise from the wreck
he swings his sickle wide
gathering up the dead his job done.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2017

Written for Imaginary Garden Of Real Toads giving an example of incongruity.

The Poet’s Dilemma

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The Poet’s Dilemma

Days and nights spent crafting words to perfection
fueled by cheap whiskey and non-filtered cigarettes
cut off from the very world he writes about.

His prose clever and filled with profound images
the darling of society
everyone wanted his company
designers gave him the finest garments
he lived in a stone mansion with a beautiful wife;
but on the inside…

The poet’s soul is tinted with the blackest black
he has no words left
his muse left him with no note
empty with no more to give.

He sits in his library at his big ornate desk
the glow of the candles outlining his frown
considering the writer’s block that has silenced him
feeling lost.

He inhales, his cigarette glowing red in the dark
he opens his desk drawer to get more whiskey
his handgun next to the bottle.

He pours himself a drink
as he has done so many times before
it burns as it travels down his throat
the loss of words was killing him
destroying him!

He put the handgun to his head and pulled the trigger.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2014

Shared with Poets United.