Today, poetry is in my bones--
words reverberating against flesh,
holding up my body
through ribcage and skull.
I am a skeleton of sonnets.
If you were to cut me open,
verse would flow out:
I stain pages with ink-splot blood.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
The kettle catcalls me from across the room,
liquid love cradled in its hollow stomach.
Poured into a mug,
it is joined by a tasty tea-leaved companion.
Together they smile,
content in the morning.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC
My face is assaulted
with the shivers of the autumn wind
(unrelenting and quiet,
brisk sandpaper in motion)
and I am shaking all over,
fingers rustling like leaves,
seeing your footsteps scatter
as I try to breathe
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
It is not afternoon without tea
she declares
fingers hugging the warm mug
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
It is not afternoon without tea
she declares
fingers hugging the warm mug
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
Whisperings of rain
mingle with the muddy lake
as I watch the ducks
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC
I am drawn to the
twisted branches of the apple tree
beside your left cheek--
arms intertwining,
gnarled with age and wear,
splattered with the paint of the sun.
The tendrils are
fingers grasping,
hands interlocking,
against the pale sky.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC