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Tonight's Poet Corner: Sonnet Solstice #165

I Clean The Honeycomb by Belinda Roddie I clean the honeycomb out of my teeth and cut the cornstalks from between my toes, as the sea rises around me. I reach for something soft. Instead, I grab a rose oblivious to the pain. I have felt a hundred times worse agony at night, when my demons, who have already dealt enough bruises, strip away any light that leads me to the shore. I'll suck the salts out of my wounds; I'll drink the water, too. Still, the stinging will trap me in its waltz and won't subside. My dreams are painted blue. They're always blue, though gold shall still remain upon my tongue - the honey, and the grain.

Today's OneWord: N/A

Surprise! No updated OneWord prompt. Hope the webmaster's still in good health. We'll see if this streak ends tomorrow.

Tonight's Poet Corner: Black Gloves

Black Gloves by Belinda Roddie The gentleman is waiting for you with wax in his ears, white film across his eyes, and a tongue forked enough to rival a cobra's sneer. He wears black gloves. When he walks, his cane is as thin as his legs, the knees bulging outward, two bony worlds on a fragile axis.

Today's OneWord: N/A

Annnnnnnnnnnd still no new OneWord today! Welp. Ta ta for now!

Tonight's Poet Corner: The Ballots

The Ballots by Belinda Roddie Your hands are stained red, mine spotted with blue. Is there anything else more productive we can do?

Today's OneWord: N/A

Still no OneWord update. Oh, well. It's been one disappointing night politically, anyway. Freaking midterms. Later, guys.

Tonight's Poet Corner: This Is

This Is by Belinda Roddie This is a handful of honey from the womb of a mother who I never knew how to love or why I should. This is a doorstop built from the wood I collected from streams when my feet got too hot and my head got too crammed with words. This is a paper airplane, and this is its pilot. This is his paper house and his little bleached paper wife. This is a chalk drawing of a bee hive that buzzes with birds instead of bees. A mother never taught me how to love or why I should. This is a man trying desperately to be more than sugar stuck to a paper lullaby. He is hungry. He is hot. He is like me in that the words ate him alive and stripped him as white as purged honeycomb.