Kitten
On my shoulder
Massaging me with purrs
Reminding me what it’s like to
Feel Joy
Mar 26
Mar 26, 2026 at 7:31 AM UTC
They call it a chopper
For the way the blades slice the air,
For the way the sound slices your eardrum
And minces your gut as it approaches.
Chopped could describe the exterior,
Banged-up in a way where
you almost feel safer drowning
than being lifted into its cage.
Chopped are the words
Spoken by the coastguard
As they try to secure you; you can’t
Distinguish their voices from the wind,
From the drum in your ears.
They call it a chopper,
And expect you to be happy
To see it.
Feb 19
Feb 19, 2026 at 4:07 PM UTC
She hobbles to the park bench.
“Do you mind if I sit with you?”
The couple, uncommonly bathed in white
Remain silent, not breaking their gaze
Into each other’s eyes.
She takes it as a yes.
“You two must be so in love.
I remember what it felt
To look that very way at my
Own beloved,”
And so she recalls, looking up
As if searching for her partner’s
Home in the heavens,
Sharing her story with strangers
As the lonely so often do,
Her voice strolling through the past.
Tears in her eyes, she pats the cold, hard
Shoulder
And thanks them for listening.
Using them to steady herself
Before hobbling into the art museum.
Feb 9
Feb 9, 2026 at 4:19 AM UTC
I start to read
a poem,
turn the page,
and only once
I read the end
do I realize
pages stuck
together.
I started one
piece and
finished another
and yet they
told the same story.
Oh, to be able to
write the same subject
on loop without
ever repeating a chorus
verbatim
Oh, for the ostinato of
my work be apparent
in every collection
No matter how many
Decades pass
I could never write about
birds
or nature
or God (or lack thereof)
the way she does
But I would like
my soul to bathe
every word in
sunlight
the same way
Feb 5
Feb 5, 2026 at 7:21 AM UTC
The body can dispel intruders
By way of torture, force and flame
Yet there is not anything cruder
Than the tug-of-war of loss and shame
that refuses to leave where it has came.
Bad meat leaves a footprint
easy to track;
Loss leaves barely a hint
like needles in a smokestack,
invisible until it attacks.
Grief has no sturdy structure,
disguises itself as a stray animal.
I can't euthanize it
like I did her;
I can't watch it die like I did with him.
It wriggles into the coziest coil of brain matter
and sleeps; when it tosses and turns
the body spooks, trying to find
an intruder.
The body can't expel
emotions by more
than way of
tears;
How I wish I could
push it out of
either end.
Jan 24
Jan 24, 2026 at 7:37 AM UTC
She cashed in her retirement fund,
every penny-- though pennies are no longer minted--
and booked a cruise.
Her body can work but in the most simple sense
that it works; mobility is slowly running away
from her.
The medical system fails nurses, after all,
especially those who can't be nursed themselves.
She doesn't expect, I suspect, to have
many more chances for adventure.
I'd venture a guess that she
had accepted this.
If she has to worry about the frozen chest
clamping its jaws around her, why not
take every coin and toss it
in her bucket?
Jan 17
Jan 17, 2026 at 2:43 PM UTC
Every First of January it occurs,
Popping out of my mind like a hibernating bear
Ravenous for knowledge, productivity, promise
A desire to learn. An itch to open every tome
And gorge on all I missed out on the years prior,
A list not of resolutions but of references.
The cave wall smattered in names and subjects,
I wish to absorb it all into me;
on the wall, it will mostly remain, washed away by overwork
I will forget all of these things in 7 days time,
and another 358 days will pass
in a capitalistic hibernation.
Jan 1
Jan 1, 2026 at 2:23 PM UTC
For 48 hours it sat in my gut,
the possibility of
dead letters
of stanzas standing still
of work washed away for no one to see.
I refresh the page yet it curdles thoughts further.
Unavailable
Unreachable
Potentially forever
And I curse the promise of my own words
I curse the ambition that led me here
and swear upon a piece of paper
that I will never
Let your words die
It is a cruel reality, in this age
of letters transmitted within seconds
that they can be swallowed up
and burned trying to pass the gate;
Your name branded on the cold iron.
I've lost many friends
at the crash of a site,
reduced to a pen name
and a memory
Many pieces of mine,
Pieces of me,
lost to gateway errors and dominated domains
I do not wish you
or any
of you
to become fragments.
Jan 1
Jan 1, 2026 at 2:18 PM UTC
Clay
Spins;
wet hands
guiding it,
firm beneath his palms.
Willing it to become something
more than a mere lump of damp earth but a flower ***
eventually becoming a most exquisite and gracious host again to more damp earth.
Dec 18, 2025
Dec 18, 2025 at 4:13 PM UTC
White foam
Flavoured of salt
invading my nostrils,
depriving me of any air;
Drowning
Dec 18, 2025
Dec 18, 2025 at 3:51 PM UTC