If Poetry was cornered,
and about to be scorched alive
he would stand still and strong
despite the quivering fear inside.

His murderers would begin to sneer,
watching Death dangle minutes away,
and torcher him before they'd say:
"Any last words, on your last day?"

He'd swiftly swing open,
his delicate pages aflutter
as their wretched smiles
start to crack and sputter,
in shock at the boldness
of being openly sighted
and so very vulnerable
to being instantly ignited
just to save the great works
of all the world's poets,
who poured out their hearts
so purposefully in pen.

They'd see pieces of Poe,
about to exist Nevermore.
The words of Angelou,
with emotion in store.

Frost and Untaken Roads
that now all lead to Death.
Wordsworth's wisest words,
soon to take a final breath.

Eliot and The Wasteland
will find one another soon.
Not even sad Shakespeare
is going to last till' noon.

As the observing evildoers watched,
Poetry paused on a piece prepared:
"Because I Could Not Stop for Death,"
to which they remorsefully stared.

What a shame it would be,
said proud Poetry,
to let these legacies die.
the spirits of every poet
will haunt you if you try!

The mob looked at one another,
and quickly fled the scene,
leaving the ending as happy as
A Midnight Summers Dream!

~
If She is Spring & I a Tree
Skeletal, in Winter's grip
My Tears have long since fallen
Like Leaves that Time forgot
No more to fall, no more to weep
But come, oh come, with gentle Hand
& touch me, as the ripples stir
In some unfathomable Sea
That I may bloom & fall again
To weep & shed anew.

~~
Come my love & touch me
Let me bloom thrive into verdant green
So I can shed my leaves & cry again for thee.

~

As I swim through the Ocean Breadth,
A Turtle—or the like—
Who fears a Few but not of Death—
Returns The Caller's Hike.

It passes by a kindly Wave—
A gently smiled nod—
Perhaps it grieved a Deed unsaved—
A Sorrow left uncaught.

I make my way to grab its Tail
and question what it knew—
It merely turns its Head to wail:
I am not of the Few!

What more of us should Timing take—
When things were never sown—
But heading backwards has a Stake
of never having Grown.

Emily, Emily, called back,
But not set free,
By those who worship
and study thee!

Summers see the young ones
Gather on your lonely grave.
Kissing with immortal tongues,
To desire they are slaves;

But you forgive them blithely,
tell them to proceed,
In your name and memory,
The one thing you knew not was greed.

-Sharon Talbot

i hide you under my skin
                                 like a war archive, -  a secret code,                    
is not hard at all, it comes naturally, like drawing, or
tyquando,
there is no dominance in the heartbeats market,
without rehearsing twice, they ripe like peaches,
waiting for the next wave to tear apart every cell,

*my love,
like an ingrown toenail , you are hiding under my skin, -
just because we use the same room,
                              hiding and escaping is not the same thing

Emily shmemily,
Emily Dickinson,
Recluse and poetess,
Rendered her rhyme

Idiosyncrously,
Much of her poetry
Reading most cryptically
Much of the time.

These days I’ve been looking to the past, to all the women before me. The revolutionaries whose words helped shape the way I see the world; the way I see nature; the way I see simple, ordinary pleasures of life become extraordinary.

These days I let my pen flow freely across the page. I look to all the women before me for guidance because I find myself afraid to speak my own truth. They teach me with words how to live presently, never looking back because there’s no room for mistakes to reside here.

These days we’re on a first name basis. With wide-eyed clarity, all the women before me allow a short glimpse of them as they once were: bright young things full of hope with a cigarette loosely balanced between faded red lips and hands that move deftly over a typewriter. The room is filled with cigarette smoke and incense. I can almost smell it now but the vision is gone with the wind.

These days I seek out: Zelda; Sylvia; Anne; Emily; Joan; Virginia. To all the women before me, I have found you. They’re no longer a black and white still photograph or a short film reel. In those moments, they stay forever young etched in time from decades ago.

These days I welcome you all in my waking dreams. To all the women before me, you are not lingering ghosts being passed by unseen. You are not remembered for how you left this earth but for how, after all this time, you still remain unchanging.

The Space—between two Seconds—
Is wider than the Sea—
Is smaller than an Atom—
Is all Eternity—

I slip into Forever
Between the tick and tock
Of ageless Time's forever unwinding
Chronoscopic Clock—

And there I see together—
In perfect Unity—
My Savior—ere and after—
His Birth and Calvary—

Because I could stop for Life—
She kindly stopped with me—
The carriage held not just ourselves
but all mortality.

We promptly drove; we knew of haste—
I didn't put away
my labour nor my leisure too
for Her civility.

We passed an industry where workers worked—
At midnight— in the room—
We passed the fields of gazing grain—
We passed a megamall—

Or rather— they passed us—
The cloud unhid a paintful ray—
For certain cotton made my clothes,
my plastics only pay—

We paused before a house that seemed
a miracle in the air—
Its use was scarcely visible:
A trick of tear and wear—

Since then— 'tis days and yet
feels longer than the aeon
we first surmised the turning sky
were toward Temporary.

Three poets
rot down a river bed
their body decomposing
except their head
still composing poetry
and recite being dead
where poems still flow
I’ve heard them read

one was caught
by the sun beam
flickering ripples of light

another fought
by a splashing bream
kicking up a fight

the third flowed down
the rapid stream
where water foams white

I, one day went fishing
and caught myself a fish
down the river swimming
quoting Tennyson
Dickinson and Finch
I set it free
because poetry is freeing
Not every line in the end
is a hook
three dead poets can testify
down by the brook