#emilydickinson
I have scaffolding for sky—
choirs of carpenters.
Desecrated doorways.
Smell of **** and peanuts.
The hallelujah of halal carts.
Psalm of salsa.
A bodega bagel’s benediction.
My cigarette’s sanctity—
coffee’s communion—
steam rising—
seraphim
on a saxophone note—
Kneeling in the gutter,
I hear the city sing—
My window,
my forest—
my love.
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 12:25 PM UTC
It feels like a movie, as if life was plotted out to each varying detail. A movie I am not apart of but a spectators of sorts. Never seeming to join in the rolls we each play.
Slowing tearing at me, never knowing what role I am supposed to play. Almost making me feel as if my role is to watch and see, as this world slowly unravels around me.
Just watching, almost say studying the movements that each individual plays and the effects he or she makes. A movie I can not change, even if I tried with all my might.
But my worst fear of all, the one I am most afraid to see, is will my scene end or will this movie end before me.
Jan 6
Jan 6, 2026 at 11:14 PM UTC
You know that
You have had
A wild night—
When you are wearing
Yesterday’s makeup.
©2025Ellen Finn
Nov 19, 2025
Nov 19, 2025 at 2:11 PM UTC
I hear "the birds"
outside calling —
but at zero degrees
I am sorry!
It's like Emily's phrase:
"When [even] shadows hold their breath" --
I will enjoy you from the inside
and warming,
Jun 21, 2025
Jun 21, 2025 at 6:58 PM UTC
For the honey - lo!- came bitter,
and as the Beat of Us-
Heart - Charges On
We wondered - each - to the Other
How - do we - wait for
You - who have give and-
take- as the Breeze-
whispers past yet-
all that's being Heard-
is of this Frozen-
Caught in Tresses-
Believing that - You-
Would arrive-
at the Bugle's Cry-
of - Victory.
Yet past - This -
the little Ladybug-
and i - we -
Live ever - for
it too traipses off!-
amidst brushes and bushes,
not - wanting to -
fall in - to the
Lie of - Painting.
Apr 21, 2025
Apr 21, 2025 at 9:58 PM UTC
Like this
sunrise,
or the other dawn--
so sweet in its
unborn delight
so soon already-- gone --
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 12:25 AM UTC
Words won't die,
But worders do;
The turned phrase stays
Young as you.
Where do these pangs go?
Dying elephants don't know.
Old Hollywood shows,
Brigadoon and El Dorado.
At the bottom of a *** of gold,
Beneath double rainbows.
I read Chaucer
When he was young,
And Emily too,
And Rev. John Donne.
Batter my heart...
Yet feeds
Mine
As I read it once again.
Jul 14, 2024
Jul 14, 2024 at 8:21 PM UTC
sappho greets her as she
would a reflection:
hand against hand, staring into
her eyes. silence dancing
around them as a long-lost love-
r.
enheduanna sighs at the contact
and the quiet shifts as
her fingers close:
as there is no need for language
when her
inanna will grant them
a holy diadem.
-----
eternity reeks
of nights out on the lawn
daisies growing with the weeds
pillowing beneath the two
dwindling women -
hands clasped tightly,
their eyes closed.
...lapis blooming
within the petals
of the undergrowth...
gods slumber amongst
worthy poets occluding,
heart-soothing each
other without words
or sonnets
or divination.
sappho dared to
look out from
heavy-lidded
lethargy,
for she was
yearning:
at dawn
...her honeyvoiced,
mythweaving
enheduanna:
a sweet-shelter
of temptation
and goddesses
who wage
tender war and
drink from pools
of sun...
at dawn
the ancient
divine
poet
gazes
again
and sappho
forgets she
too is nearly
as old
for her lover wears
an invisible golden-
crowned circlet
of springtime
and illuminated
lands.
but she can hardly think
anymore, when
the songsmith of
glory and prayer
is kissing her.
laying in the basin
of heaven and skies
she pours restless
eternity down
her throat.
----
lapis melts
to pink clovers
of fowlerite
no mortals notice
two bodies blending
between poems
rustling tunics
maidens casting
away their
fruitful
sobriety.
----
poet
dreams
a woman
of verse.
hardly expecting
shallow-breathed
kisses of burning
solstice and
unrequited
love.
Feb 16, 2022
Feb 16, 2022 at 12:18 AM UTC
“”Hope” is a thing with feathers...”
Only, I don’t think it is.
See, feathers mean it’s a flighty thing
And belie its true belligerence.
Hope may yet have feathers,
But forget not the claws.
Hope is a thing with brambles;
Hope has a tendency to stick in crops.
This little burr adheres to the underside,
Never noted unless poked.
It clings tightly in the smallest gap
And can’t be ignored once evoked.
Now, I grant you, Hope may seem rather rare,
But lay on your stomach at night; you’ll find that it’s there.
Aug 29, 2021
Aug 29, 2021 at 11:39 AM UTC
beautiful towers
crescent moon
under the bridge we hid from few
outlookers who saw us hand in hand
oh sue, nevermind next to you, I'll always stand
you said, "emily look out"
they can't catch us when we're on the periphery of your town
flower braids and hazy smiles
playing hide and seek up till a peculiar height
sue you do a lot of things
you say things so lovely
the only name ever
dancing on your tongue should be "emily"
harnessing a lot of love
my tongue's still tied, your face is unsure
tracing a pattern and making it travel through your moles
sue please dont give in
my heart's still beating
they can't know about us
and if they do
come with me
to the land of cottagecore
and if you say no then these all will be my questions,
"why would you touch me in a way your touch will linger?"
"why would you leave your best friends for a wine and some mingle?"
"why would you risk your life when i know your feelings dont fickle?"
"why would you gift me that pendant made of gold and covered in nickel?"
"why would you choose your abundant hours to teach me how to whistle?"
oh Sue, i know
you will never say no
just know, if you ever say yes
its you forever and ever and ever more.
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 7:42 PM UTC
I want to ride upon those feathers
That cut through sightless, icy night
Or glisten in the sunbeams
And soar throughout the bright
I’d like to know just what she spoke of
When she heard it sings its tune
To hear the notes hang overhead
Ever present like the moon
I want to look within my soul
To see that same thing in its nest
That beautiful thing with feathers
Beneath my very chest
Mar 26, 2021
Mar 26, 2021 at 12:35 PM UTC
put me, lovingly, in a hearse, the way the dusk lays it shadows;
the night threatens to spill off my pores
trying to run from lonely places —
now, it bleeds all over me.
a sight of a mess.
a sight of horrors
and no napkins for wiping.
no napkins for grieving.
some just don't
make it out alive.
tell the daylight i cannot come.
put me, lovingly, in a hearse.
no, i am not made for burials —
it's for the ones left behind;
tell them all
i cannot come.
leave me, my sweet one, lying in this hearse,
the way the dusk leaves its shadows in the arms of the night.
sweet and fragile.
quiet and gone.
send me off, softly.
send me off, mourning.
send me off, for good.
tell the daylight i cannot come —
maybe i'll see her too, so soon.
— fray narte
Mar 9, 2021
Mar 9, 2021 at 12:05 AM UTC
I scratch the neon paper with thoughts in my mind-
The way you scathed laboured wood under dim candle light.
Clueless to my aptitude the falsity of what is new
What I know is- You, not you but your marvelous craft-
papyrus paper and pen, quill to bound book.
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 7, 2020 at 7:51 PM UTC
i wish i’d bled enough;
my wrists — sore from scratching,
from trying to crawl
out of this treacherous skin
my lungs — dry from screaming.
my lips — chapped from chanting prayers;
one for each gravestone in my brain —
different dates
for a single name.
and i wish i’d bled enough —
died an enough number
to never die again,
but my wrists, they still have spaces for my wounds
and my mind, it still has spaces for my tombs
and tonight, i will hold funerals
for the parts of me that bled to death,
for the parts of me that in the caskets lie
and for those that still
are yet to die.
Oct 3, 2019
Oct 3, 2019 at 8:10 PM UTC
The world is made of mystery
as wild as the dunes
where secret spirits gather
and grasses whisper psalms.
My guesses cannot run as fast
nor can ideas fly
to catch all that amazement
floating upwards toward the sky.
This universe enormous,
its distances unknown.
Its stars and moons and planets
live in their spacious home,
but all that can belong to us
is life and death alone.
Sep 3, 2019
Sep 3, 2019 at 4:35 AM UTC
There’s this crazy house but
Where? No one really knows.
And it’s full of poems, not a line of prose.
And even though the sky’s the roof
all the doors are closed.
She keeps the whole place clean
and neat so anyone can see
that what she’s really after is Possibility.
For this is the Dickinson rag, yea, yea,
this is the Dickinson rag.
There was that carriage, sweet and slow -
Sunday driver – stop and go.
He picked her up along the way -
It seems it was the end of day,
and they drove to some strange mound -
damp and musty, underground.
Was her gossamer gown a bit transparent?
Cause the guy’s intentions weren’t apparent.
I guess she really liked the ******
Cause she wrote him poems in great number.
For this is the Dickinson rag, yea, yea,
This is the Dickinson rag.
Her characters are really weird -
Those roses “out of town?”
Wish I’d gone along with them –
but I got no scarlet gown.
Yea, Emily, your verses rock,
but I know I’m not alone
In not quite understanding
what means “zero to the bone”.
And that’s the Dickinson rag, yea yea,
that’s the Dickinson rag.
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 4:54 AM UTC
I am poetry.
My back is the spine.
My arms turn into the cover.
My fingers smooth into pages.
The prints printed on my thumbs bleed words.
I am a poem,
Every single part of me.
I am all the thoughts the human race has ever had.
I am the mother, I am the dad.
When you want a piece of poetry to feed your mind—
I'll peel the layers off my thumb, ‘til they form sentences,
I'll bend my fingers back, back until they turn into stanzas,
I'll snap my arms crooked, ‘til they cry out titles,
I'll arch my back, and screech as they brand me with the name of my owner.
I am a haiku.
The original OG.
You can't handle me.
I am a sonnet,
Betrothed to Shakespeare.
Like a kid learning his alphabet, and he gets stuck on G:
AB(AB)-CD(CD)-EF(EF)-GG.
My couplets are more star-crossed than Romeo and Juliet could ever be.
I am T.S Eliot here to sing you love songs—
Don’t you cast me to The Waste Land.
I am Maya Angelou ‘bout to free the bird from its cage—
And still I rise.
I am Emily Dickinson finally stopping for death—
You can’t **** me.
I am living, breathing poetry.
My veins bleed poetry—fear this blood.
My eyes cry poetry—see these words.
My shampoo brand is poetry—feel these curls.
Rise,
Stand,
And take up the pen.
Poetry is our oxygen.
Let us all breathe it in.
Our words will save this nation.
From a simple sentence to a conversation.
We are poetry.
We will save the world.
You are poetry.
You can change the world.
I am poetry.
Use me to save this world!
And when I finally die,
I'll be reincarnated into a tree.
I'll be turned into pages for the next poets to use.
And when they do—
I'll be free.
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 6:50 PM UTC
Nah.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXX)
Charles (Tennyson) um, Turner wrote for sense
Of April's playful hours, but who t'avail
Set down those languished moments chill'd exhale
Through til we hugged that cuppa in defense,
And looked out on the misty hours pretense
Tricked out to suit our fancy, sweaters bail,
Nor thought it but delightful as the pale
Eye of these region clouds forswore what hence?
Perchance the fragile warmth we cherished too
Much, was it? Em'ly Dickinson in poor
Scuse was not thankful of soft joys, cuz her
Dear longing for--was't romance far more true
Than zephyr whispers? chilled her soul as twere.
I can't decide if she was right 'non, too.
11Apr19c
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 3:28 PM UTC
Nobody mourn,
nobody get hurt
We just project
redirect the blame
and sink back
into interactions
with coping devices
of mass distraction
The artificial womb
of the masses
Tethered by an invisible
umbilical cord
feeding us way
too much
information
Like hungry ghosts
salivating
the next notification
We can’t run.
We can’t hide.
There’s a threat to survive,
But we’re so ******* desensitized
Seduced by the school shooter
we don’t hear him coming
singing siren songs
heart-beating shotgun blasts
That leitmotif
in sync with
The American Horror Story allegory
Just forget it
Too much in the queue
Too many new things
We can’t reject this reality
It’s really ******* broken
Em, I’m sorry we’re descending
Much Madness has lost its meaning
It’s just the means to
unlock an achievement
Emulate another scumbag.
romanticize a villain
amplify the bodycount
Like how many do you need to ***** out
before they give you the cover
of the Rolling Stone?
It's comedically-tragic,
Stranger than satire.
The Judge, the jury
Executioner cutie
cut all your losses for ya
cashed in your lil tax deductions
The most sacred snuffed out
before the light could become them
Get woke a-f,
This is enlightenment!
Come on get
your mind blown!
He’s the one who loves
to shoot his gun
But he knows not what it means
knows not what it means.
Do you know what it means?
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 11:02 PM UTC
How much is too much,
doing those Emily Dickinson numbers,
almost to #2100,
doing with words what was previously unheard of,
the Andy Warhol of pop poetry,
will continue until even the Atheist Haters believe in me,
I mean if they ever again believe in anything,
&,
I’m on track,
to not look back,
all I’ve gotta do to be great is not die,
or do something stupid and get locked up,
like lose my cool & Triangle Choke out a fool,
just for acting rude,
doest that mean I have a bad attitude,
I don’t know that’s why i’m asking you,
used to have nothing to lose,
now I’ve got nothing to prove,
Game of Life you decide,
pay the price roll the dice win or lose make your move,
I made mine,
by choosing to write these lines,
created my own style & gave it a title,
end every piece where it begins
so the thought’s are complete & the piece comes full circle,
add a few pop culture references & call it Pop Poetry,
& no one known is excluded,
I include more than a few references to saying & names,
my work is an encyclopedia of idioms,
it’s our entire collective Contemporary History literally explained,
& artistically rearranged to keep their attention & entertain,
& I’l write until I write every last thought right outta my brain,
how much is too much,
doing those Emily Dickinson numbers,
almost to #2100,
doing with words what was previously unheard of,
the Andy Warhol of pop poetry…
∆ LaLux ∆
Cali, Colombia
July 2018
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 2:14 AM UTC
Oh dear, she said
there comes a time
when all things
they cease to shine,
and looking up at frail moon's fade
she lost her way
she lost her way
ever toward an inner light
ever toward a mundane night
you cannot ask for want of asking
ever toward the soils crashing
oh dear, she said
there comes a time
when all your dreams
will lose their rhyme
and so on past
the child at play
and past the girl
on bridal day
an further past
the humming hag
until she reached the grave at last
oh dear, she said
there comes a time
when all things, they cease to shine
and looking up a frail moon's fade
she lost her way
she lost her way
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 4:43 PM UTC
My padlock waits for thee:
Silver key, will you set me free?
My padlock craves reply.
Oh key, don’t be shy!
You fit my nook,
Together we’ll unhook,-
Say, key,
Enter me!
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC