Even the babe
has to detach. It's part of
the birthing aftermath. As leaves
on the trees in the fall
blow off their colors, red,
gold, and all. So, every branch stands
naked against the crisp autumn
air. And the ground is a blanket
of leaves flying in pairs. Two threads
of yarn woven together, a weave,
unraveling and separating. The
green is now fading into yellow
and blue. Not part of the same
hue. But just as colorful a strand -
not stranded together.
Sep 12, 2022
Sep 12, 2022 at 7:45 PM UTC
The news says:
the scouring of the earth began today,
so press your greasy fingers
against the triple-pane window
as you crave the heat of summer.
When we peer fearfully around the curtain,
we see the worms,
a warning the ants carry off the pavement.
There are holes punched
out of the whole world,
gaping,
unmoving, unapologetic,
wounds seeping into every thing on Earth.
Even the people bleed,
letting into and onto each other.
I open my mouth to sing,
and they dump the plasma in.
To chew with no result
(either spit or swallow)
is the request.
I try and pour the sorrow
back out of me,
but to do so is to look
into the holes I must spill it into,
their eyes shining back through mine.
It is endemic seasonally,
seemingly to every season,
so I seek an end,
seemingly endlessly.
In the morning I wake up rotten,
and by the evening I have been debrided.
Then the news comes in again;
I must start the search anew.
Sep 12, 2022
Sep 12, 2022 at 7:24 PM UTC
I've got daydreams
of you pushing our lips together
and I realize I am a late bloomer-
I have gone so long without
the realization that
I can feel comfortable
being wanted, that
I can crave people touching
me gently
and while I know it will be hard
not to flinch,
I am at long last
allowing myself to feel
desirable and
to desire in return
you may never use this power but
in thanks for the clarity you
have returned to me,
I give you the permission
to touch the art.
To lay your hands in the arch
of my spine,
rest your head on my shoulder,
and fall asleep next to my steady heartbeat.
This is not something I
have ever given, and
it is new to me
but you are beautiful in such a way
that it makes me feel pretty
just sitting next to you.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 7:22 PM UTC
i.
i jar spare change for my trip home.
it’s moved away from me recently,
it sleeps across concrete rivers now.
i jar my change for the ferryman,
he will recognize me soon.
i will make this migration often,
and soon he will wink at me when i come to sit in his boat-
he knows what’s pulling me down the river.
and when i come collapse
into your arms,
my weariness will melt away,
wicking away in the warmth of you.
and i’ll be home,
for a while.
ii.
ice clenched between my teeth
i pull away from you
ferryman doesn’t wink this time.
he knows how bitter it is.
iii.
my spare change tink-tinks into the bottom of my jar.
the cold on my skin
is worth it.
summer wouldn’t be as sweet without the snow.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 1:42 AM UTC
The Sun
beats upon my
shoulders
a drunk
Father stinging me;
Your face
red and peeling,
grins past
your straw.
A hot day
spent dunked
in the ice
water;
Green and
slow moving with
algae.
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 11:32 PM UTC
i have learned to live despite your bitter soil.
i will thrive without your support,
as i always have.
i am hardy and i do not wilt when the
cold comes.
you will not **** me,
not with your herbicides and
your kind words.
you will not tame me,
with your great blades that
churn the earth.
i will bloom through your efforts to
**** your garden,
a stubborn marigold in your sea of tulips.
you will not take from me what you want.
come time for me to bear a snowy head,
i will travel on the winds,
away from your small,
constrictive garden.
you will never wish upon me again.
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 11:28 PM UTC
i am not a poet
i am simply cataloging my life
and saying it pretty.
poems are always about love and hate,
the great dramas of life.
my world is a quiet one,
and all i have to write about
are small dreams and
little moments.
i have heartbeats that would be a sin
to forget so
i immortalize them the only way i know how:
flowery words with no rhythm
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
I have been awake,
perhaps a little longer than I should have.
My door is cracked and I hear you stirring.
The sun has risen, but the light that travels through
the window is still soft.
Your coffee machine gurgles,
and I think
what a wonderful thing to fall asleep to.
You are quiet but I still hear the gentle
tink-tink-tink
of your spoon upon your mug.
Your gentle morning mayhem
has become my lullaby,
and i know I will rest easier for it.
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
I was wrapped in black
fur and white fur and
you undid me and then
you placed me in gold light
and then you crowned me,
while snow fell outside
the door in diagonal darts.
While a ten-inch snow
came down like stars
in small calcium fragments,
we were in our own bodies
(that room that will bury us)
and you were in my body
(that room that will outlive us)
and at first I rubbed your
feet dry with a towel
becuase I was your slave
and then you called me princess.
Princess!
Oh then
I stood up in my gold skin
and I beat down the psalms
and I beat down the clothes
and you undid the bridle
and you undid the reins
and I undid the buttons,
the bones, the confusions,
the New England postcards,
the January ten o'clcik night,
and we rose up like wheat,
acre after acre of gold,
and we harvested,
we harvested.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 1:21 AM UTC