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 Mar 2019 Courtney
Madisen Kuhn
i shouldn’t expect
to stand still
while the untethered
and unbothered
wind demonstrates
the power of the universe
as it sends the rain sideways
twisting dead and
soon to be dead leaves
in its playful vortices

because my roots
are brand new
my limbs are still
thin and delicate like
soft green saplings

for awhile
i will bend
and shake
and fear
the thunder
until i dig down
far enough
in the dirt

the bending
and the shaking
is part of
the beauty

if stay here long enough
if i let the storm soak into me
instead of letting myself
run for cover
i will become
strong and steady
like an old oak tree

i will wear my growth rings
like gold metals
proudly parading
the proof of
what i have weathered
—there will be
too many to count

and i will find myself
smiling at the sky
when the dark clouds roll in
because i am
still here
still standing
after all this time.
 Sep 2018 Courtney
touka
interim
 Sep 2018 Courtney
touka
the wind is drunk on its liquor

a subtle slurring

lilies stir on the lilt of its voice

as harsh a requitement
again, I find no respite

as lithe as the life
in those ever-rearing gold rows of wheat

mistral born, on the rise
like prying eyes

I am thrown
into some tumult,
where some enemy rages on
shakes his staff against the cold

where the lighter chaff is tossed
toward the salt that laps the sand
on the sweet breath of its benthos

I am withering
but the wind blows on

whiles along –
drones its tepid mourning song
springs the dew
from its calloused palms

I am thrown
as sure of war
as trees will shed and flourish
and shed and flourish
in seasons to and fro'
freshly disowned
by the earth and its shoulder

a carapace of autumn's
exhumed again
it seems so easy for trouble to find me
 Sep 2018 Courtney
touka
claire
 Sep 2018 Courtney
touka
light pools in-between buildings
and she eyes the arches of morning through the blinds
sharp white through concrete divides

summer has lasted quite a while
or has it passed too fast?

anemone, daffodil, mid-august ebonies
terse and kind replies from well-trained staff

flags creep down, half-mast
crawling, as if there is shame somewhere

I can only hope
for hope
to ease some of the fear

prophetic, dread
candlelight or medicine
oxygen and antigens

but I've come in like a gust
something soft and raging

for now, it is enough
doors close
on mid-spring
and its balmy pinks
but there's another door ajar
×
I read something I really didn't expect to tonight? Claire Wineland died.
I loved her. I love her. I love her family for doing absolutely everything they could for her her whole life. I hope even bigger things are still in store for her, wherever she is. And I hope even bigger things are in store for the things she had in place in this world.
×
finished, unfinished
as it is
it's business
 Sep 2018 Courtney
touka
wilmington
 Sep 2018 Courtney
touka
wind soughs outside
slightly

I'm up late tonight

my sister careens
on the eastern coast
touches Topsail
with her lacy fingers

and I cross mine

wheels and wheels
like lockstep men
march inland
automobiles whine
like soon, treelines

I'm up so late

my best friend dreams
in the wayside,
somewhere west of me
after a long day
of convincing her boyfriend
to high-tail his *** out of Raleigh
Clayton, it is
he decided
her fret only calmed enough to sleep
by his promises of a high-rise property
and below 70 mile wind speeds

I can feel my eyelids tug

my brother's fingers thrum
on countertops
well-wishes in morse
as he says he'll stop thinking about it, now
no, wait... now

and my mother works to bend
each emerging frown

as my fingers drum up natural disaster nonsense
I watch, wait for the earth's recompense
as it surely blares through my old house's fence

rippling through the silhouette of the statue
my sister's soul had attached itself to

every crevice of county road
every man-hiked piedmont mile
interstices of feet and snow
the dirt that has seen every trial
to fail under inclement weather

they say it's overdue
that it's been a while
dazzling or desolate
×
be safe out there, please
 Sep 2018 Courtney
Pagan Paul
.
Snow drifts down
     laying a lawn cold sheet
across the frozen ground,
          creating art reliefs
like acid etching glass,
open space rolling and undulating,
in small hills and depressions,
     bedecked in a veil of white.
The silence is deafening,
quiet having been enjoyed
     and surpassed,
briefly punctuated by the call of a bird,
     A sharp whistle that shrieks
and attacks the silence.
The fresh smell of snowfall wafts up
     as it settles and glistens
in the light of silver moonbeams,
randomly peeping through clouds.
The taste of peace,
                     tranquility,
in the frigid air,
sends imagination soaring
from the desolation of isolation
to another time and place.
          The snow falls,
     falls,
in a relentless race for the ground,
               all is still,
               nothing stirs,
as the moor welcomes its quilt
and sleeps with a cold heart,
     dreaming,
                       of being kissed by the Sun.



© Pagan Paul (28/05/18)
.
 Jul 2018 Courtney
OC
Urban (Raven)
 Jul 2018 Courtney
OC
For you, I'll make a nest
on top of the church spire
and fashion it
from plastic straw
and dangling colored wires
I'll cushion it with cold receipts
and pocket lint
and party flyers
and leave each morning
an early bird
to pluck stale crumbs
and rancid meat
from drifter's blackened feet
before even the buses
took to the street

You will feel at home

I will feel concrete
 Jul 2018 Courtney
Pagan Paul
.
Pray excuse me Lady, I do beg thy pardon,

but I saw thee walking in the lonely garden,

chestnut hair falling over a long white gown,

and sadness deep in eyes of almond brown.

Forgive mine intrusion, please take a glance,

agree to accompany me to the lovers dance,

for thy loneliness to mine open heart screams,

so take mine hand and show me thy dreams.





© Pagan Paul (16/06/18)
.
Lord of Green series, Poem 16.
.
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