She whispered stars
into the evening
through strands of brown
that made up my world
My tiny eyelids fell
before paperback memories
of the little boy
dancing in watercolor
As her gentle curves abandoned,
I finally awoke
The boy,
not really a prince
And she,
my porcelain moon
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 4:00 PM UTC
No need
for valentines
She wears
men's hearts
like pendants
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
as the dead end road
reached its limit
we stopped
the snow
stretching behind us
from one ditch
to the other
seemingly smoking
as it skimmed the asphalt
sirens broke our silence
while we gawked
at the long-standing
blemish
among successful fields
years of neglect
now drifting away
in tufts of black smoke
our faces reflected
its tremendous glow
and he watched
my heart sink
reassuring me
that those fields
would churn out rusty nails
for the next
fifty years
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
Sometimes
beneath her words
subtle strokes
of ivory are heard
But she can't sing
just flails about
in murky puddles
no galoshes
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 10:53 AM UTC
Out here,
poem is a ***** word
covered in silt
kicked up from the fields
caught in the breeze
they 'cling, cling, cling'
through dangling wind chimes
of rusty silverware
drifting away
like unwelcome guests
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 10:43 AM UTC
Dry, brittle branches
Black as death
Disrupting the smoothness
Of the oh-so pale blue sky
Your determination is ugly
When compared
To the myriad colors
You left on the ground
But this reminds me
My favorite tree
That Old Man Winter
Never wins
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 6:19 PM UTC
Freed
from the isolation
of inadequate words,
she felt herself vanishing
like the ghosts
in her womb
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 10:41 AM UTC
I could see him thinking
at the top of his lungs
as desolation seeped
from the wounds
in my belly
Murky water revealed
the shadows we’d tried to escape
while giant mayflies
struck
our bitter, fragile limbs
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
Just as much
as that black and white day
when her delicate hands
carried baby's breath
he finds himself
adrift in her eyes
still pleading
with
the clocks
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 10:10 AM UTC
Under bruised skies
in late July
she hoarded electric life
in blue Ball jars
Dandelion dust
twitched across her face
as time
inevitably would
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 10:05 AM UTC