he had low-grade
tattoos on his neck
and his clothes
wore transparency.
beneath his eyes
held a dying sun.
he spoke in thanks
and respect, the cuts
upon his wrists called
reached a finger out
and called my eyes
to say hello,
he spoke in gratitude
for the smoke i gave him.
he smelled like cigarette
stained couch cushions
he spoke a respectable
ebonic intellect.
his fingernails
were unswept
floor trim
and his teeth
were smashed
dinner plates
at his mother house.
departing he said
thank you
and i offered him
a cigarette for the road
and he refused and said
“for talking to me”

An egg, boiled fresh
a matryeshka doll watches
                                                     somewhere the last train
                                                     makes it's way down the tracks
past the lakes
& the reticent pine trees

                                                          ­            the street lamps
                                                           ­           shine wearily

                                                        ­                                        & again, the rain
                                                            ­                         is starting up once more
she reads Kurt Tucholsky
' Schloss Gripsholm' with a dictionary

                                                     ­                     writing down his odd words  
                                                                ­       daintily as if they were glass,  
not to be handled
except lightly                                                          ­          the city holds her
                                                             ­                              like a child

You picked up my poem so I guess you want to know
Of such old story I witnessed long ago
Some might sob and feel their heart tear
Others might shrug, pass it all in one ear
Some may either laugh, even call me a loon
For I once knew a girl who fell in love with the moon
She had him on her fingertips but couldn't ever catch
So close yet so far, impossible to touch
Bittersweet moments comes when nighttime falls
I can hear her heart, I bled over its silent calls
I had the liberty to watch her moon-lit face
The sadness it reflects I want to drench in my embrace
Years passed but still she couldn't hide
The way she looks at him, eyes could never lie
Alas! the delight of seeing her love under the blanket of the night
Days, week, decades, I've lost count
But I still think about her, here and now
Haunted by the memory of remorse and regret
And that face of a girl I couldn't quite forget
It kills me that I never got to tell
That all these time I loved her, I also fell
And for eternity, with this I have to dwell.

Leigh Herondale  *May 2015

She grows best where the sun shines long

and strong

where the air is hot

mosquitos have agendas

and time is just different

the sun shines long 
and strong

and she grows tall and wide

naturally 
using the nutrients of the Earth

to co-create with herself

a new generation called

by so many.


In these places

the bodies are protected
 with ample vitamin D

perfection of the dream

the hair spirals to a tight coil

assisting with heat release

these bodies

with their recognizable
 similarities to me,
to us all.


The ocean is so blue,
in some of these places,

even I jump in.


She grows best when her power is understood

the intimacy of her relationship

with all who are open.

She is so strong.

Manifestations be like that though…

her ability to totally support her community,

while also accepting from the network

is awe-inspiring.

Her lineage is so cooperative

its probably the first real jealousy

I've felt in a few days.


To be able to interact with

You

through touch or words or color

and instantly understand
your needs.

And then to be able to satisfy even one of them?!


Man the brain leaves much to ask for.


She was the first one that talked to me.

She was screaming

she was being eaten

I thought I was just dreaming.

I wasn't.


The concrete my feet grew on

was too cold to understand

(though I'm sure it too has 
something to say…)

so the translation is a bit jumbled.

And uncomfortable
…am I just crazy??

well, yes, of course,
I talk to myself all day long...

So, this is the poem that I will end up writing
when no other poem is willing to do the work.

This is the poem I write when I'm past not
being able to sleep and I'm beyond
even trying. This is born of body burnout.

This unfolds as I unpack myself from
bags beneath by eyes.This is an ugly poem
unfolding from ugliness.

In this poem, I'll make an ambiguous allusion
to someone who is missing. The kitchen
feels suddenly too small.

This may be one of a few kinds of resentful:
parental, psychosocial, rebel-without-a-cause sentimental
but the poem blames something for what it is.

This poem is to say I am not a talented poet.
I'm a poet with a stammer, a non-poet, speech impaired,
a poet with neither the rage nor the riot.

So this poem may even plagiarise, for
not even poets have measured how much
the heart can hold. -Zelda Fitzgerald.
This poem throws itself down the stairs.
It burns down the asylum with stolen words inside.

How do I urge this poem to do better?
I can't, I can only keep writing it.
Writing out my resentment, my restlessness.
Wretchedness, Wanting. I can even break
linguistic, grammatical and syntactical
regulations By capitalising some arbitra-
ry Words and messing with enjambewhatnow.

This poem has found a neologism.

In this poem I CAN RAISE MY VOICE
for my wanting, and then in the same poem
shut my voice into a music box
to leave on your nightstand.

This poem has managed a neat trick. Illusion?
Some rhetoric magic. Some see a rabbit appear from
nowhere. Others see a girl being sawed in half.
.
The best (- though, at what?) could see both
but know it's not really about that.
They know it's about appearing as something
that are you not and that's a craft in itself.

As I or this poem already told you,
I am  not a talented poet. I am just a girl
masquerading as someone she's not,
because she doesn't know what she is yet
or wants to be or could be, yet.

She and this poem may seem to have more
to them, to be even interesting,
but both are waiting for you to grow bored.
"