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Henrie Diosa Dec 2020
they stormed out the corners, the screamers, the signs,
all black. but no longer occult.
i tried to walk past all the mourners in lines,
but my heart was my pillar of salt.
can heaven forgive me that i could not come?
please carry my soul to your flame!
i’ll tend to my garden and pray you reach home —
but i know that it isn’t the same.
though clouds round you gather, each knight noble stands;
the rain is the least of the cost.
o sable crusaders, my hand in your hands,
i will march with the ghosts of the lost.
Note: This was written on the anniversary of the declaration of Martial Law in the Philippines in 1972. There was a demonstration at my university, so that we may never forget: Marcos is not a hero.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
and they say hey hey it's okay
you can turn in your paper late
as long as it's complete
but oh the time and oh the stress
and oh my life is such a mess
and i cannot compete
Henrie Diosa Jul 22
he doesn’t play the piano
the piano plays itself
through the dextral treble
and the sinister bass clef

he doesn’t lift a finger
the ivories press back
the ebonies go up and down
without a single clack

he barely presses downwards
his fingertips suffice
the music plays the piano
he’s merely its device
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
the sunlight warms the grateful earth;
the river slides into the sea.
the mirror shows an endless void:
there must be something wrong with me;

the breeze caresses laughing boughs
like blossoms nuzzled by the bee,
but on my face it's numb and cold:
there must be something wrong with me;

according to these other views,
there’s beauty that i cannot see —
and since the error’s not in them:
there must be something wrong with me.
Anhedonia is one of the negative symptoms of schizophrenia. It means an inability to gain pleasure from activities that are usually pleasurable. Like not being able to taste when you have a cold, but for everything.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
i hope world war three breaks out tomorrow
so our professor cancels class
i hope the sky lights up on fire
and we all get an automatic pass

i hope the economy falls into shambles
and news anchors say we're all doomed
i hope a bomb falls on a church during mass
burned but not consumed

i hope all the world leaders resign
i hope you get punched in the teeth
i hope an intercontinental ballistic missile finds
an irreparable coral reef

i hope when i run that the sun burns my eyes
that's cinematic weather
i hope that you find me before they find us
so we can explode together

i hope the future historians have trouble figuring out who wins
i hope they never understand
i hope the ******* find us singing
hand in unlovable hand
I've been listening to a lot of The Mountain Goats. I think it shows here.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
women fear me, fish fear me
men avert their eyes
every living creature falls
into a hush, and dies.  
when i walk, i walk in silence
on this barren ground
i will never fall, and thus
will never make a sound
Written for Racheltown. If you know, you know.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
our fingertips towards our toes
our legs are long, long, long
our chin to chest, our knees to nose
our heartbeat to the song

breathe in. breathe out. and elongate,
to straddle; point our toes
and in. again. and out. again.
be plastique to the pose

look up: our pinkies at our crown
with arms above, in fifth
our elbows up, our shoulders down
no tension in the wrists

our core engaged, our spine aware
of every vertebra
and gently smile, no tension there
throughout the port de bras

our calves should burn, but move with ease
lengthen, lengthen,
                                      and — release
Started for ballet class learning logs, finished for the #TopTweetTuesday of August 24th. Ballet stretches are nice. They wake up parts of you that you didn't even know were sleeping.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
Twenty-two inch night shift screen, as yellow as the moon,
Bedroom midi keyboard typist tapping out a tune.
Headphones cancel noises I do not have funds to nix;
Before the piper pays, I gotta fix the final mix.

Tempest on the tabletop, and dishes in the sink;
Got no time to wipe them down; I need the time to sync.
Pinging pile of notifs on the lockscreen left on read;
Empty fridge and cabinets; I gotta get that bread.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
may your exhales smell like baby's breath,
may your bedbugs die a painful death,
may signals strong as storm-struck waves
serve you all your days

may your freezers be ever full of ice
may your magazines be free of mice
may all the good things come in spades
when you play video games

may nothing be lost in your room
may april showers make you bloom
may heaven hear you when you pray
your migraines go away

and when — not if — i'm left bereft
then may your memory hold heft
inside my heart, where it shall stay
if you will that it may
Henrie Diosa Jul 22
(come on brain, think of things / come on brain, be so smart — lin manuel miranda)

with hollow bones i had been born,
so why their leaden flight?
for others have far heavier borne;
i must be feather-light

in branching paths i loved to wend,
their tangle stuck me fast.
now shorter streets have found their end;
i must be lightning-fast

i write these things to make life rhyme
but cannot see to see
and wonder, wonder, all the time
what must be wrong with me

and they say better late than not,
and better slow than still
while counting anxiously to naught
and asking when i will

i do not know! i do not know!
what little i do ken
is that i go when i can go
and do all that i can

and yet my life in shambles lies
i cannot see to see
with oceans in my tired eyes
what must be wrong with me
spiritual successor to the one about anhedonia. let's see if i can make a symptom trilogy out of this
Henrie Diosa Dec 2020
it is things we need to live that need our money
that our toil is multiplying every turn.
tell me you, what is the point of having bosses
if they do not give the workers what they earn?

do not work to fill the pockets of your bosses
for who sets the catch around here, sets the cost
tell me you, what is the point of having money
if it only means our stolen labour lost?

tell me you, what is the point of having borders?
who can tell me how much earth and sky they own?
tell me you, what is the point of hoarding treasure
when you cannot, lonesome, eat all you have grown?

by tomorrow, or tomorrow, we’ll be ready
all the people will be free, or they’ll be dead
we will ration out the milk of human kindness
and we’ll grind the bones of billionaires for bread
Henrie Diosa Sep 2020
follow the tracks to auschwitz.
do not bother to pretend
you see lights at the end of tunnels,
but the tunnel has an end

if your outer world is barren
grow your garden deep within
there are cruel wolves around us and
we must not let them win

hold on tight to peacetime, carry
every memory like a light
through the marching and the burning
find a reason for the fight

when the stones stand to be gathered
when the cigarette is lit
this suffering is the noble task
to which you must submit

there is work that only you can do,
love only you can give
what does life expect of you?
life expects you to live
We read Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning in class, the last reading we got to do before lockdown, and it gave me a different way of looking at suffering and why there is suffering in the world. I am not Jewish, and I am in no position to compare anything to the Holocaust, and I will not presume to. Let it not be said that I am saying that having to stay in is on the same level as genocide — I am saying they are two points on the one line, a line of infinite points, and there is something to be learned of survival in the bleakest of conditions, while we survive this and everything else.
Henrie Diosa Sep 2021
she steps between the boards onstage;
she knows which ones will creak.
the days repeat, the setting stays:
she knows it’s her we seek.

although the curtain’s long been dropped,
she will not end the show;
for we will find her when she stops;
it’s her we seek, she knows.

emma, emma, you have lost;
i’m sorry, but it’s true.
so listen to the man you trust
and let him come to you.
emma, you will come to us,
no matter what you do.

our meteor glows a starry blue,
our spores dance in the air,
our audience cheers (they cheer for you!)
she screams, but no-one’s there.

and when we meet, when we embrace,
(a scene learned from her dreams)
she looks for him inside our face
but no-one’s there. she screams.

emma, emma, you have lost
your way, but we are here.
and as we made the man you trust
into the man you fear,
emma, you have come to us,
and we will make you hear.

she struggles as we hold her down;
she still rejects our peace,
but as she hears our hallowed sound,
she weeps at her release.

our blueness heals her broken bone
that rigor mortis keeps,
and one with all, and all alone,
at her release, she weeps.

emma, emma, you have lost
so much, but we have gained
the music of the man you trust,
the music of your pain.
emma, you have come to us
to join in our refrain;
emma, you have come to us
to sing in our domain.
originally written for the #Hecks100 prompt by @hecks_prince on instagram. the prompt was "you can't hide forever, emma... come out, come out, wherever you are..."
Henrie Diosa Feb 17
Why couldn’t you just shine, and never flicker?
Why couldn’t you forget me, like the rest?
Just let me be your ****-up of a sister,
The failure that you pushed out of the nest.

You could have lived the life that you predicted:
A house, a yard, a minivan, a kid!
And I could hike the continent, contented
With what I’ve done, not caring what you did.

Whose fault was it? Which ******* here was driving
When all your glittering plans went up in ash?
How dare you break beyond hope of surviving;
How dare you die, Jane Perkins, in that crash!

How dare your number call me with no warning
That some guy’s voice would sob with tragic news?
How dare you write no checklist for this mourning,
This endless task that I can never snooze?

How do I shape a life outside your shadow?
How do I cut a path you never tread?
Why can’t I run away to Colorado,
What ties me down to Hatchetfield instead?

Of course I’m left to finish what you started;
This cruelty is all so very you —
You, accomplished, finished, done, departed —!
You’ve left me all the things I cannot do.
written in the character of Emma Perkins from The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
In the rain he walks, dejected.
— What a tired little soul! —
Keeps the air of one rejected
As his only living goal.
Why, a butterfly would irk him
If it landed on his shoe,
And I bet no-one could work him
Though he hasn't much to do.
In his pretty melancholy
He will loiter in the park
Where the gentlemen will call; he
Mutters Shakespeare in the dark,
Making it his lame ambition
Just to wear a lover thin —
As he's failed his lover's mission,
Why should anyone else win?
So he walks, pretentious *****,
All a-trimmed in mourning black
And he drinks his bitter coffee
Then he goes to hit the sack.
He pretends there's some great novel
That he's keeping in his mind
So he locks up in his hovel,
Where he takes his ****** time.
He will play chess solitary
As he's drowning in his spleen,
Saying how he'll never marry
As he captures his own queen —
Why, a kiss would surely burn him,
If someone would have the gall!
And to love I couldn't turn him
If he's ever loved at all.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
some spirit just told me
my uncle's gonna fold me
i'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer
but he took the danish crown
and he's married to my mom
and i think he killed his brother for power

well the clues start coming
and they won't stop coming
put on a play and sent the man running
doesn't make sense to anyone
your words fly up
but your thoughts stay down

so much to do, so much to see
get yourself off to a nunnery
you'll never be killed if you ****
you'll always be loved until—

hey now, you're ophelia,
girl i feel ya, go away
hey now, prince of denmark,
get the show on, this play
to be or not to be
the soul of wit is brevity

hell's a hot place
and they say it gets hotter
you're bundled up now
wait til you're underwater
frailty thy name is woman
judging from the mess in your sheets
ya sinnin'

learn to skate
when the ice gets thin
wear all your clothes
and go for a swim
doubt the stars are fire
doubt truth to be a liar

hey now, stab a rat still,
did i just **** claudius?
hey now, prince of denmark,
half depressed, half glorious
to be or not to be
you can't play a flute
and you can't play me

hey non nonny
hey non nonny
hey non nonny, hey, hey

poor yorick alas
i well knew his clown ***
kissed him square on the lips, and he's dirt now
and i said hey, even kings decay
might stop a hole to keep the wind away
and i'd quite like to sleep in the earth now

well my folks start dying
and they don't stop dying
bear what ills you have instead of flying
unmask your beauty to the moon
can't see him now
but you'll smell him soon

so much to do, so much to see
here's some rue and here's some rosemary
you'll never be killed if you ****
you'll always be loved until—

hey now, hold your cup high,
to health of our thane!
hey now, prince of denmark,
hamlet, thou art slain!
to be or not to be!
i do not set my life on a pin's fee

to be or not to be!
you can't play a flute
and you can't play me
Yes, it's Hamlet to the tune of All Star by Smash Mouth. It's what the bard would have wanted.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
Seeking out the strongest signal,
All my mind is radio static.
Though I have no holy hymnal
Shouldn’t this be automatic?
Some say you are wind and water,
Some say you reside in Rome.
But I knock, and get no answer;
God, are you not home?
Henrie Diosa Sep 2020
some folks in this department
are really full of it —
a curse on those who use my poems
for some didactic ****

but blessings on the amateur
who reads, and reads again
and travels where i’ve never thought
to go, or never been

within the walls, between the lines
to make a hidden way
and use my words to say the things
i never thought to say

to make a subtle gradient
between the truths and lie —
and turn me over in my grave
that i may slower die
This is a poem about how I want people to overread the hell into my work after I'm gone.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
Tell me, truly, are you singing?
Say, are you the one who sings?
Or was that the reeds a-ringing
Rung by Zephyr’s mayfly wings?

Once upon a quiet evening by a still and silent water
was Ioreth, who was singing, as they gazed upon the sky
who was neither flesh nor fairy, who was neither son nor daughter,
who, while all of use were merry, went away without goodbye.
Our Ioreth sat there singing to the cool and quiet sky.

List you well, for they have started; can you hear Ioreth singing?
They were nearly still departed, and their voice is still nearby.
Where the dew clings to the rushes, and the reeds where dew is clinging
look o’er still and silent gushes, there they’re singing to the sky.
They were flighty; we were foolish; we remain; their voice will fly.

Tell me, truly, were you singing?
Say that lovely voice was yours!
Or was that the breeze a-bringing
Melodies from other shores?

When Ioreth, in their weeping, noticed ripples on the river,
then the one, no longer sleeping, rose to greet them and to try
to ascertain if it truly was Ioreth, music-giver,
who was quietly and cooly singing to the silent sky.
Such a one, below them peeping, spoke and sang for a reply.

So Ioreth, slightly pensive, leaning like the rushes weary,
sang with language quite defensive that they could be heard to sing,
but it was a night of singing, and the rest of us were merry,
or it could have been the wind that could be heard, for it was spring;
Sang with language quite extensive that it could be anything.

Tell me, truly, were you singing?
Will you sing for me right here?
I heard winds your voice a-stringing
And I want to have it near!

So the one list to their singing, with damp arms upon the shore,
and Ioreth, forward leaning, sang to her and to the sky.
Not a star was watching o’er them; they had all gone on before
when she reached out to embrace them and to wipe their cold face dry.
And Ioreth, pity gleaning, let the one list to them cry.

Tell me, truly, were you singing?
I thought Heaven sang to me!
I will swim back home a-bringing
Your enchanting melody!

When the one embraced them hither, (they could not be saved by praying)
then Ioreth’s voice did wither, though they did a screaming try.
And the one took them down with her, where the rushes all are swaying;
We were far away and merry; we did not list to their cry
And Ioreth’s voice, reminder that we never truly die,

Ioreth’s voice will sing there

‘Til the rest of us reply.
Note: "Ioreth" is pronounced /ˌaˈjɔːɾɜθ/. I wrote this in 2016 as part of my debut (literally; I published it on my 18th birthday) collection of writing, Well-Arranged Inkstains. The version in the book uses the neopronoun set ne/nem/nir/nirs/nemself, the pronouns I was using at the time; this version, no less non-binary, uses singular they, my current set of pronouns. No particular agenda there. I just wanted a poem to exist that used my pronouns; the rest is dreamy nonsense. A cautionary tale of what happens when outcasts are left unsupervised by moving bodies of water and tall grass.
Henrie Diosa Oct 2021
i’ve never touched a Snow —
yet of the cold and of the dark
there’s Something — that i know

the — Torture of December
to long to see the Sun
when every Day is — Struggle
not every Day is won

my life has been a Summer
in September — quick and false
like Mayflies on an Apple
or a Leaflet when it falls —

a Sigh against a Window —
a Crash against the Sea —
and once i close the Windows
i will not see to see
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
i am a kind of hermit-crab,
and there i found a shell,
and would have stayed, but summer passed —
the walls i had outgrown.
i kept my trinkets in my cave,
and to myself alone
that attic flat in bremen was
my home away from hell.

half-sleepy on the straßenbahn,
transport me anywhere —
the frei in freie hansestadt,
could taste it in the air!
i kept a book for sketching in,
and never felt so free —
that attic flat in bremen where
one summer i was me.
This is a poem I wrote for class. We were only supposed to make one stanza, and I only submitted the first (edited into the required quatrain, though I think it breathes better set this way) but I wanted to have the whole thing up somewhere.
Henrie Diosa Sep 2020
early to bed
and early to rise
for tonight is the night
that your enemy dies

for not all who wander
will ever be found
and we know time will put
all our foes in the ground

so close your eyes tight
and let loose your sorrow
if they don't die tonight,
they will die tomorrow.
I wrote this when I couldn't sleep.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
take the torch that splits the dark,
pocket monsters are the mark,
shine the light upon the messes,
seek the one who fluoresces
Written for Racheltown
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
To hollow bones I had been born,
my weight, then, led their flight;
But you had so much heavier borne,
that I was feather-light.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
I'm captain of my struggle ship today,
Throughout the toss and turn and slip and slide.
Without a map to set me on my way,
The treacherous and rising sea I ride.

The walls will leak, the sails will tear and give;
The wind will run the struggle ship aground.
But I will try to bodge and steer and live
Until my fabled pirate treasure's found.

'Til then, behold the struggle ship afloat
Upon a sea of thick and boiling oil,
Composed of sails of lace and petticoat,
And hulls of sandalwood and silver foil.

If others pass the storm that we all take,
At least I prove the weakness was my make.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
don’t take a picture on sunflower road.
don’t take a picture with him
with his arms open wide
and his face to the sky
or your next four years will be ten

don’t take a picture on sunflower road
before you have earned your bouquet
don’t point your lens
at the statuesque man
if you don’t wanna be delayed

some say there’s no curse,
that your fear makes it worse,
but still it fulfills without fail

like the priestess at delphi
each saddening selfie
dooms the fool’s smile to a wail

it will take what you give
til your brain is a sieve
so you’ll never leave;
never lay down your load

listen to stricture,
the unwritten scripture:
don’t take a picture
on sunflower road.
university tradition/urban legend, but make it creepypasta
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
teacher, show us how to open our palm;
show us how to serve with you
to give to each according to their need
without expecting anything from you;
to struggle with our neighbour and not mind
what sufferings we must endure;
to ever toil without searching
for comfort in recompense;
to hope without expecting;
content in knowing
we are doing your will
a left-leaning english translation of the tagalog hymn Panalangin sa Pagiging Bukas-Palad, which is a translation of St. Ignatius iof Loyola’s Prayer for Generosity
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
Alighting on a night illuminated by the moon,
With air so hot and heavy you could slice it with a spoon,
They perched on a precarious branch and barely moved a leaf;
The angel peered inside my head and poured in all the grief.
They sank a toe into the depth and found it rather cold,
So warmed it up by stirring up some lies I never told.
The angel, sitting on my skull, was wading ankle-deep;
They sank the stars into the sea to see how I would weep.
They painted eyes onto the shadows just to see me start,
And then, because they could, they hung a weight upon my heart.
The angel counted every breath by dancing on my chest,
And hit me with their arrows every time I tried to rest.
When I was drowning in my eyes and deathly still and numb,
The angel left as quietly and quickly as they'd come.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
i met god once again today,
or maybe she met me;
i fell in love the selfsame way
i fell into the sea

and every breath of brine i took
was one forgiven sin,
yet though the angels call me home,
they will not let me in.

yes, i have died a thousand times
of causes great and small,
and on i hope to die again
to prove i’ve lived at all!

for i am a plaything tangled
in the playwright’s wretched plot
and i trust that her great story will
in time, forget me not

for a wretch like me could never see
the yield of what i’ve sown —
so lead me not where tempters lie —
i’ll get there on my own.

this sorry fleshy prison is
the opposite of free —
with stones inside my pockets
let me march into the sea
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
let evening settle into night,
let dawn unfold to day;
let me remain the anchorite
the world has tucked away

each battle has her casualties
and i am one of those,
the difference is the art of death
that heaven for me chose:
the world is cruel and hasty, so
i left it to forget;
i let the world be kind enough
to be my oubliette

i knew that on the day i died
the world would still go on —
they never noticed i was there,
nor that i'd even gone.
i left before those *******
made a misanthrope of me,
and let my body fallow so
my spirit could be free

with nothing but myself and god,
contentedly immured,
i pass my days in prayer and praise
in union with the lord.
there is no sweeter bread or wine
to tempt me from my cell,
so let me rot in limbo while
the world goes all to hell

let others be the prophets!
that is not the role i play
let me remain the anchorite
the world has tucked away
(because my reaction to quarantine was a desire to quarantine myself into an even smaller space.)
Henrie Diosa May 18
your finite minds will calculate
the music of the spheres,
and try to map the infinite
to guide your pioneers

but though those circles heave and sway
and through the aether surge;
i tie my fulgent secret way
not to this demiurge.

that blinding, bumbling dynamo
is but another star,
and countless others shine just so,
indifferent and far.

why let that mere proximity
endear my core to this,
when graver is the gravity
twixt me and the abyss?

no law of physics governs me,
they know not how I move,
i flitter frictionless and free
though maths may not approve

predict my orbit, if you can!
jar lightning for your gears!
i trap the spite of centuries
i burn your deity's tears

remember, child of adam, and resign:
i am the matter you will never find
(it's from the pov of a particle of dark matter, but like what if it wanted to ******* scientists on purpose)
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
i know you like a house that looks like no-one is at home;
i know you love me more when i'm not reading you a poem
but i must empty cabinets and swing and shut the doors
i have to **** the bedroom lights and creak along the floors

so thank you for the space to *****, the room to pest and polter
forgive the spiders in your hair, the tapping on your shoulder
my friends are dead. their friends are dead. so i might die as well
we have no hope of heaven so i’ll harrow our own hell

i'm peeking out the picture frames; i'm haunting our own halls;
i am the yellow ivy in the papers on the walls.
what else, what else, what else, what else have i to do in here?
please. i just need to make it through another business year
because i need to make it through another endless year
so just lock me in the attic if you do not want me here
Henrie Diosa Nov 2020
Shall I march into the sea tonight?
The lighthouse-keeper asks.
The light is lit; the wind is wound;
I have no other tasks.
The rains have cycled fifty times
Since they last turned on me;
Shall I bar the windows shut tonight,
or march into the sea?

Who will find me lost at sea tonight?
The lighthouse-keeper thinks,
When shepherds turn their flock indoors,
And the barkeep turns to drink.
I am the lighthouse-keeper, but
I do not have to be;
They'll find another keeper when
They find me lost at sea.

And if the sea won't take me, love,
The lighthouse-keeper sighs,
No candle on my windowsill
Is watched by no-one's eyes —
No shadow's crossed my threshold's bounds
Since I was thirty-three —
With stones inside my pockets
Let me march into the sea.

Give me no pauper's funeral,
The lighthouse-keeper sings,
Though scant be the inheritance
You'll cobble from my things.
If my debtors come a-calling,
Tell them, forfeit every fee —
Or, if they are truly greedy,
Let them find me lost at sea.
You ever try to write a poem for the funsies and it comes out sad? The prompt for this one was "Present options on the first line of your poem" from Leandro & Mai (@leandroandmai on Instagram). I think it was also influenced by the latest Buzzfeed Unsolved video about the Flannan Isles Lighthouse Keepers. Also, it's been windy and rainy and cold lately.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
a stiff wind blows across the vale;
it chills me to the bone —
and warms my heart to know he’s here
and i am not alone.

he turns his face, with trembling lip,
to look me in the eyes;
the last ones left to contemplate
our broken paradise.

there used to be much more than we
who walked here hand in hand,
when worship was confined to rooms,
when love was contraband,

we danced around the fire pits
when dancing was a sin;
and left to our tomorrow'd selves
the trouble we’d be in.

we knew the forest as a friend
with all its secret shades;
the mushroom bards who played the waltz
for elves and river-maids —

but even harmless fantasy
must bow to cruel facts;
the signature of discipline
cut deep into our backs

and though my soul’s in ******* by
the promise of a ring,
and fire’s lamed the little tongue
the forest taught to sing,

the music of the memory
still haunts me in my ear —
and beckons every equinox
my heart to wander here

and here behold the home we thought
no hierophant could find:
a bed of ash, an empty vale,
his spectral form, and mine.
Henrie Diosa Nov 2021
i could catch up with campus news
or criticise this prose,
but all i really wanna do's
lie down and decompose.
i didn't even do the SET,
no preenlistment run;
how am i this exhausted when
i've still got nothing done?
and yes, it makes the flowers grow
to think of what i can,
but looking at my acads now
i don't see much to stan.
Henrie Diosa Sep 2020
a wasp upon a flowered branch,
around and round she flew —
her carapace electric black,
her wings electric blue.

of nectar-drops inebriate, she
swerved from bloom to bloom;
i tarried from my errand, but
she wouldn't, i assumed,

but for a while. so i went on
and she went on her way;
the busywork of insectkind
their flutterings belie.
26 June 2020 — When I went out to buy a bouillon cube from our neighbour, I saw a beautiful blue-winged wasp in our white angel flowers. So I wrote a little thing for her, in imitation of my good friend Emily Dickinson.

I love how she uses these serious Latinate words for simple natural things, the badinage birds and the emolument of the sky; her work has been and continued to be an unexpected wellspring in my journey to enrich my vocabulary. I used some of my new words here. Maybe you can learn some new words with me too.
Henrie Diosa Sep 2020
this little piece of amethyst
was from a geode broke,
and now, beheld, it calmly sits
as if it were bespoke.
between my palms, my hands betwixt,
the stars are enveloped,
and thereupon my eyes are fixed:
a universe of hope.

— The End —