Ava Carlson

Ava Carlson Oct 2013

CHOICE

Lying empty, fraught with calloused hands,
Sets of baskets are roughly hewn into her side
Barbed wounds stinging, a thousand thrown needles.
To know nature is to know prejudice reclaimed.
It must her nature then, to be known.
In the tangle of vines to be reclaimed do we all gawk
At the path so hopelessly lost
But we see it in her; she’s facing the colors of her past
She has picked the fruit we dare not touch,
Shame her with hidden envy
Prouder than the crowd,
She chose this.

Ava Carlson Sep 2013

Return to the sea

In the sea the sirens call
I jump from that castles’ wall
The garters and gates won’t hold me in
For she had come calling, once again
My love, the sea, how she wailed and cried
I needed return and be at her side
But how fate could turn its cruel head,
For my treachery had forced her head to bed
I nest myself in the sands of guilt
Lying in her froth, a hand on the hilt
Guilt, a sword, pins me here
Your froth meets me to come and leer
I know that I could not stay true
So now my lover, here I come and join with you.

//most of the poems here are for a class i'm in.
This project was voice and it may or may not be from the Prince's point of view in the Little Mermaid... but in the original story

Ava Carlson Sep 2013

Untitled

Amber walls stick to the curtains, a dimly light bulb calls out in Morse code.
Miss-Matched curtains let in far too much light, passers-by jog and sweat past with little regard.

A throne sits regally, a cornerstone in the haphazard mess. Alternate dimensions and stories and lives and loves and tragedies all shudder in their plastic nests, some lonelier than others, sharing their royal display. Corners and nooks and crannies stow away the remains of yesterday, greedy for more. Garments of days gone by and days to come litter the way; letters in bottles whose destination was
Long forgotten.

Ava Carlson Sep 2013

Relapse

Paper mice and shoelaces
Time strangled dust gathers on the cabinets
The cinders have long gone cold,
And these bones lie
Déjá vu sleeps in the walls, and
Moths litter the ****
listless with waiting

— The End —