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theladyeve Oct 2023
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.
Heavy Hearted Jul 2023
and what lucie is what you get
or so a new voice, charmingly said
Puns profoundly... playful direct
pull me toward this new subject

less than a year is all I've got,
to see from such new eyes
absorbing all which might be taught
when my memory's a minefield...

I get so far ahead of myself
I wonder why I write
without the longing, without the lost,
how can we know how deep the cost?
to feel or not- Its a choice now-

& it's as it's always been
Ours to give,
and to receive.
written for, about, and then to, Dylan.
Jia Ming Mar 2023
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.
Meow Aug 2021
I shall stay home tonight
For head is louder than the sphere's noises
Throbbing with words... I can be less familiar
The moderns, it said, are swallowing us whole
But who are us? Who spoke?
Emily... whispered to me
Through this loneliness of poetry
I am not a modern, she said, we are ancient
But why I am her patient? To her, who told?
Axis of modernity... that's where she is
Through this, we made love to each
So I will settle, I said, to your handsome endowma
Questions, questions... no more conundra
Through and through, I must deify you
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