collette-wilson
American
A young lady from Maine, just trying to figure it all out. Most days a photographer, but dabbles in just about everything else. Full names are fine, but she goes by Coco. / / Help her improve! She welcomes any and all constructive criticism without hurt feelings.
I wonder when our
cities will be bright enough
to drown Orion
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC
Offense is a proud, pretty bird
preening her feathers just so,
resplendent in attire
crested and crowned
looking down over the world
without warning,
the wind dares to
tousle her hair--
affection between
connected hearts, between
friends, between
the flier and the flight
the bird shrieks
at her ruffled feathers,
the caring gesture,
and the good intent.
she broods
she resents
and she preens
when she is ready,
the wind does not come.
she shrieks at its absence
as she did at its presence,
but she can't put her pretty feathers to use
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
snowflakes on my tongue
I remember younger years
in every backyard
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
snow in the city—
except for the chickadee
the air is quiet
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 10:58 AM UTC
one day my feet will just let go
of the ground,
and I will fall into the sky
I will walk without waver
hand over hand over hand
on the power lines,
an act on the electric high wire
that this circus won't see
because its patrons fail to look up
and since nothing is grave
without gravity
I will sing to the birds
a melody they have never heard,
a legacy tended by mockingbirds
in the lullabies
they offer their young
and as I tumble on through the sky,
I will gaze on this bright planet
over a scene reduced to green-blue
and the seamless blend
of wonder and disaster
and I will face the black
open arms filling with stars,
then I will put on my coat
as my mama told me
so I'll not catch cold in space
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 8:34 AM UTC
The sun and the sailors were still asleep when the red women came. They painted the sky scarlet before the first golden rays chased them away and onto the ships. The sailors were aroused by the sound–like a thousand singing sirens had risen out of the sea. Their voices were like the ocean itself. Rising, falling, breaking points, high winds, and low tide. The captain appeared with his men, and the world was quiet. The red women took them then, and both men and women of the sea sang–rising, falling, breaking points, high winds, and low tide–and the sun fled with the onset of tempest. In the end, there was nothing left. No storm, no ship, no men, and no women. But the sky was painted scarlet and chased away the last golden rays, and now the sailors delight in red nights, but take warning at red mornings.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 11:24 PM UTC
I haven’t come to rest
on your porch just to
be accused and then
arrested. I just need
a rest from the world.
As for the rest of you,
I don’t suppose you’ve
stirred from the comfort
of the armrest, though
some have surely suffered—
cardiac arrest and all.
Here’s where life’s
symphony rests—
a pause between notes—
not because it wants to,
but this measure calls
for it, two beats.
I haven’t come to your porch
to rest, but I feel the sleep
tickling the edges of my
eyes with the lack of inertia
that plagues the subject
at rest.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 11:10 PM UTC
She's stark raving mad
they tell me. But I think
of a wild-eyed dreamer,
hands to the heavens,
splayed,
longing with long fingers
to entice those lights
into moonlight sonatas that would make
Beethoven proud.
And I decide it might not be so bad
to be star-craving mad.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 10:01 AM UTC
The first arctic blast is startling
in the last of summer
because we hoped some things
were forever.
It whispers snow into the trees–
and suddenly,
the common ground that was once so fertile
stiffens.
The leaves change at the first sign of trouble,
not brave enough for winter,
but aflame before they go out.
I am disappointed–
I thought they were better than that.
In bed,
you turn your shoulders against me,
sharpened like ice,
and it seems
there will be no more growing
this season.
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
I.
sometimes my thoughts are like
dead dandelions
fragile
delicate
and it only takes a breath
to lose them.
II.
sometimes my thoughts are like
dead dandelions
fertile
intricate
and it only takes a breath
to use them.
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC