#poeticous
Somewhere between the wave’s rise
and its folding back into itself,
I felt the salt change weight in my hands.
The water no longer blurred the edges — threads began to show through the foam, knots glinting like shells in the shallows.
I was still wet with the reading,
but already leaning toward the loom, ready to watch the weaving happen.
.
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 2:59 PM UTC
the scrolls stare back like a shopfront window
where the mannequins wear my metaphors,
price tags swinging from their wrists.
You didn't shake their wrists,
but I saw it nonetheless—
tags fluttering away like pale,
misunderstood butterflies.
.
Sep 21, 2025
Sep 21, 2025 at 8:14 PM UTC
the scrolls tilt on their shelves
as the ground shifts,
glass trembling
with the weight of heirlooms and
wings—beyond the frost line:
a small planet turns,
its orbit tugging at the tags that rise
—like butterflies
from these wrists of stone.
.
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 7:18 PM UTC
what bleeds and what belongs?
skin still keeps secrets years on
but it also remembers
how you chose to stay—
even when the red
ran louder than you meant.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 7:48 PM UTC
The years have grown
moss over my name,
my transgression carved
into memory’s vestibule
always finding there
one chair turned away,
its back carved with
the shape of your absence.
.
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 4:11 AM UTC
Legend of a Feather’s Loop
Follow the gold path to walk the day from mist to glint —
Feather at dawn, Crow at the fence, Fox in the thistle,
Lantern where the conclave leans close, Hill in the last light,
and the Glint that waits for the hand that knows the way back.
Follow the silver path to retrace the memory —
Glint to Hill, Lantern to Fox, Crow to Feather —
until the first breath of morning closes the circle.
.
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 7:50 PM UTC
Feather drifts in the paddock mist,
catches on a fence where the crow keeps watch,
slips past thistle and shadow‑fox,
rests by the lantern in the council’s glow —
and somewhere beyond the hill,
a glint waits for the hand that knows the way back.
.
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 10:09 PM UTC
Fog writes you in,
hair a shifting font,
clothes, a quiet hearth —
the street braids itself around you.
.
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 8:15 PM UTC
Hair like weather,
clothes like a hearth —
I hold the street open
and let its poems walk past.
.
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 8:13 PM UTC
Wind:
from the south,
carrying the smell of iron.
Sky:
a hinge between
two storms.
Witness:
a gull circling
the drowned bell.
.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 8:52 PM UTC
The Conjunction Holds
(with a verb in the wings)
Not the leap,
but the plank between banks—
its grain remembering
both shores.
Not the shout,
but the breath that lets
two voices
share one lung.
I am and,
I am but,
I am although—
the quiet ligature
that keeps the torn cloth
from drifting apart.
The verb would run,
would strike,
would bloom—
but I stay,
a hinge in the weather,
turning both ways at once.
Here,
in the seam’s small country,
I keep the quarrel and the kiss
in the same sentence,
and call it
poem.
.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 7:37 PM UTC
éclairs — bolts
sleek barrels
brimming with custard resolve
washers —
flat wafers of caramel snap
kissed round by a cutter’s rim
slid between chew and cream
to keep the whole from
unravelling
.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 6:00 PM UTC
“Foment in the Firmament”
There is a stirring above the stillness,
a slow‑brewed unrest
braiding itself into the blue.
Cloud‑veins thicken,
their edges bruised with light,
and the air tastes of iron and distance.
Somewhere, a wind rehearses its entrance,
curling through the rafters of the sky,
its breath warm with the scent of rain not yet born.
Birds wheel lower,
their wings cutting arcs in the charged flush,
as if tracing the script of what is coming.
The sun, half‑veiled,
becomes a coin passed from palm to palm
in a game no one admits to playing.
And I stand beneath it all,
feeling the pulse of that high conspiracy —
the foment in the firmament —
gathering its syllables,
ready to speak in thunder.
.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 5:50 PM UTC
Stay with Me
Your touch is arson in my bones
Melting steel, surrendering throne
Choose: my chaos or endless night
Either way, love
— you’re my excruciating light
.
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 9:18 PM UTC
We’ve watched the tide turn,
not with the grace of moon‑drawn water,
but in a churn of noise that drowns the shoreline.
Once, the air here was salt‑bright with exchange;
now it’s thick with echoes of the same refrain.
We keep to the edges,
guarding the memory of what it felt like
when a single, well‑placed word
could still command the room.
.
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 7:35 PM UTC
poems for money,
no kicks for free —
ink on the counter,
pulse on a fee.
y ‘want the spark?
then tip the key.
poetry’s no money-tree
Sep 6, 2025
Sep 6, 2025 at 11:37 PM UTC