Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jessica Vogt Nov 2014
Where am I?
The spark, the light
the soul?
Give it back,
Whatever you are
that stole
Jessica Vogt Aug 2014
Mother may I take your hand, the one you waited for me to hold?
Mother may I spend hour after hour, day after day with you?
Mother may I fill your cup to the top with ice and pour you more pop?
Mother may I drive you to town and buy you every glittering piece of jewelry you lay your eyes on?
Mother may I clean the house until it makes you smile?
Mother may I call you anytime, day or night?
Mother may I fix all of your pains?

Mother, may I have you back now?
In memory of my mom, October 11, 1970 - August 8, 2014
  Apr 2014 Jessica Vogt
Fade to faded photographs
You know the ones
A battlefield from long ago
Broken horses
Broken cannon
Broken men
Faded broken men.

Fade to faded photographs
You know the kind
A desert scene from long ago
Wild ponies
Feathered lances
Proud warriors
Faded broken lifeways.

Fade to faded photographs
You know the places
The ones so hard to find
Clear waters
Untamed wilderness
All God's creatures
Faded fading landscapes.

Fade to faded photographs
You know their names
Seats of power then and now
Wooden desks
Feather pens
Prideful men
Faded broken promises.  

r ~ 4/27/14
  / \
I grow weary of crafting words that are spun together
feeling as if there is a beauty spurting from my pain
because the words are still marching from your wellspring
and they're saturated in your sticky intoxication
It forces me to taste the sour fact that
the fire you set to my life still burns
and decimates ties strewn out of feeble love attempts
No matter the count of the condemnations of our life
you still dwell inside of my every word
and all of my metaphors
My vocabulary is limited to you and
you drag me below the pool of new words waiting on the surface
So I rewrite the same sentiments that play between
self loathing
and love

Write where you want me.
Jessica Vogt Apr 2014
That isn't just dirt in the creases of his hands. It's dry earth he pushed through with a rusty plow behind two mules to prepare his land. It's slivers from the handles he gripped strongly and worked against. It's sweat he wiped from his brow as the sun scorned him. It's hair and **** and slobber from the horses and cows and pigs he tended. It's hard work. But mostly, it's love.
Love filled up every part of his hands, made them look *****. Love filled up a tiny valley as he stroked the long muscular neck hidden beneath the knotted mane of his favorite palomino. Love took its place in his hands as they planted each seed in a predestined hole in the ground. Love soaked the skin when sweat broke free to naturally cool him. Each time he caressed the velvet cheek of his bride with the vulnerable palm of his hand, love was there to leave her a tender tingle. Love acted as a pillow when she pressed her hand into his for comfort; it told her he was by her side and would be there when she needed. It was the fight his touch put into his wife just as she was becoming a mother. Love was the cradle as his baby girl was placed in his hands. Love was the peace his hands told his wife as she slipped away. Love was in his hands as he held his daughter's. Love was in his hands as they walked to the grave, and laid the flowers on it, and walked away.
This was an in-class exercise called "Riffing", where the writer takes a single word and writes what that word calls to mind. "*****" was the inspiration here, in case you didn't catch on.
Jessica Vogt Apr 2014
i have found what you are like
the wind
           (Who cautiously caresses cheek
with the anxious longing of hands, wreaks

uncommon want in skin
and disappears, the ghostly loss of

the air of utterable coolness

breaths of fading light
                               with pained
newfragile hope
                               come and go
-in my heart
                             ­      and
And the warmth of your breeze is
a stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
                         your kiss
Adaptation of e. e. cummings "i have found what you are like"
Next page