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  Sep 2022 Cristina Dean
Crow
in each shattered fragment
of time
we are forced apart

there is nothing of me
that does not cry out
for everything of you
Suspire - To draw a long, deep breath; to sigh; to breathe.
  Sep 2022 Cristina Dean
Evan Stephens
We didn't quite think it through,
did we now?

We just pushed that harrow
even when the fields were underwater.

Now the wires bring us
the yes-no grammar of old love.

Lewd sun, cloud-tumble,
violets dying in the loam:

images lashed to the lens,
the loom, the wine-weave

of the eye... well,
we held on for a while.
Cristina Dean Jan 2021
Lovers’ shadows cast on alley
Brick walls
The night whining
The street lights trembling
The cobwebs glowing
The beast asking for me
Like a serenade.
  Oct 2020 Cristina Dean
Evan Stephens
I still mark your birthday
on my donation calendars,
you know.

Now I'm publishing
fractions of you
from 21 years ago...

But you moved on.
You drafted another
in my place. That's ok -

I'm here to tell you
that although every angel decays,
you have decayed slowest.
Revised from a poem written in 1999.
  Aug 2020 Cristina Dean
Emily Bronte
Loud without the wind was roaring
Through th'autumnal sky;
Drenching wet, the cold rain pouring,
Spoke of winter nigh.
All too like that dreary eve,
Did my exiled spirit grieve.
Grieved at first, but grieved not long,
Sweet--how softly sweet!--it came;
Wild words of an ancient song,
Undefined, without a name.

"It was spring, and the skylark was singing:"
Those words they awakened a spell;
They unlocked a deep fountain, whose springing,
Nor absence, nor distance can quell.

In the gloom of a cloudy November
They uttered the music of May ;
They kindled the perishing ember
Into fervour that could not decay.

Awaken, o'er all my dear moorland,
West-wind, in thy glory and pride!
Oh! call me from valley and lowland,
To walk by the hill-torrent's side!

It is swelled with the first snowy weather;
The rocks they are icy and ****,
And sullenly waves the long heather,
And the fern leaves are sunny no more.

There are no yellow stars on the mountain
The bluebells have long died away
From the brink of the moss-bedded fountain--
From the side of the wintry brae.

But lovelier than corn-fields all waving
In emerald, and vermeil, and gold,
Are the heights where the north-wind is raving,
And the crags where I wandered of old.

It was morning: the bright sun was beaming;
How sweetly it brought back to me
The time when nor labour nor dreaming
Broke the sleep of the happy and free!

But blithely we rose as the dawn-heaven
Was melting to amber and blue,
And swift were the wings to our feet given,
As we traversed the meadows of dew.

For the moors! For the moors, where the short grass
Like velvet beneath us should lie!
For the moors! For the moors, where each high pass
Rose sunny against the clear sky!

For the moors, where the linnet was trilling
Its song on the old granite stone;
Where the lark, the wild sky-lark, was filling
Every breast with delight like its own!

What language can utter the feeling
Which rose, when in exile afar,
On the brow of a lonely hill kneeling,
I saw the brown heath growing there?

It was scattered and stunted, and told me
That soon even that would be gone:
It whispered, "The grim walls enfold me,
I have bloomed in my last summer's sun."

But not the loved music, whose waking
Makes the soul of the Swiss die away,
Has a spell more adored and heartbreaking
Than, for me, in that blighted heath lay.

The spirit which bent 'neath its power,
How it longed--how it burned to be free!
If I could have wept in that hour,
Those tears had been heaven to me.

Well--well; the sad minutes are moving,
Though loaded with trouble and pain;
And some time the loved and the loving
Shall meet on the mountains again!
Cristina Dean May 2019
I’m thinking about Joni Mitchel’s River
How in the midst of
Describing her lonely stale Christmas
She breaks out with
“I made my baby cry”
And of Hemingway
In The Sun Also Rises
Describing the night, the bar,
The scene and then says
“and with them was Brett”
I’m drunk and I’m thinking too much and
Aching for
Something to stop me on my heels, my pupils wide
My obsession burning on my lips
It’s my first day of school tomorrow
I’m scared of mediocrity
So I’m drinking hard tonight to make
Sure it never gets to me
My heart will always sing
Let it be blue
Let it be dark
But it shall sing
I’m smoking cigarettes like I have no due date
Give me a thing to make a mess of, life.
I’m bored and begging. I want
The wild heart searching like a lioness in the
Heat of the savannah night
I want my nails dug deep into it
I want it to squeal
Life, give me something to
Make a mess of
It doesn’t have to be this way
But it is
The clock ticking
Towards midnight
Like a knife
On my skin
Give me something right
And I’ll make a
Mess of it tonight.
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