"bursts" poems
A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.
A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, the formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.
Our only closure, a black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.
The end.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC
Day-colored wine,
night-colored wine,
wine with purple feet
or wine with topaz blood,
wine,
starry child
of earth,
wine, smooth
as a golden sword,
soft
as lascivious velvet,
wine, spiral-seashelled
and full of wonder,
amorous,
marine;
never has one goblet contained you,
one song, one man,
you are choral, gregarious,
at the least, you must be shared.
At times
you feed on mortal
memories;
your wave carries us
from tomb to tomb,
stonecutter of icy sepulchers,
and we weep
transitory tears;
your
glorious
spring dress
is different,
blood rises through the shoots,
wind incites the day,
nothing is left
of your immutable soul.
Wine
stirs the spring, happiness
bursts through the earth like a plant,
walls crumble,
and rocky cliffs,
chasms close,
as song is born.
A jug of wine, and thou beside me
in the wilderness,
sang the ancient poet.
Let the wine pitcher
add to the kiss of love its own.
My darling, suddenly
the line of your hip
becomes the brimming curve
of the wine goblet,
your breast is the grape cluster,
your ******* are the grapes,
the gleam of spirits lights your hair,
and your navel is a chaste seal
stamped on the vessel of your belly,
your love an inexhaustible
cascade of wine,
light that illuminates my senses,
the earthly splendor of life.
But you are more than love,
the fiery kiss,
the heat of fire,
more than the wine of life;
you are
the community of man,
translucency,
chorus of discipline,
abundance of flowers.
I like on the table,
when we're speaking,
the light of a bottle
of intelligent wine.
Drink it,
and remember in every
drop of gold,
in every topaz glass,
in every purple ladle,
that autumn labored
to fill the vessel with wine;
and in the ritual of his office,
let the simple man remember
to think of the soil and of his duty,
to propagate the canticle of the wine.
27.2k
As the glorious LION
Stands strong in stature
Radiating with a presence
Of Absolute rule
The air washed with
A bristly respect
A natural pride
Beams with beauty
He guards the gateway to truth
and only the brave may enter
He is the king that needs no crown
as he holds a royal presence as he
sits in his golden coat and main
Lies spark combust just bounce off
dissolve in all his shine.
As broken men become renewed
Their fractured parts
Collect in the melting ***
Of the Lion's stare
As they are engulfed and swallowed
In the reservoirs of his strength
As the many wounded souls
Find themselves restored
In his majestic presence
As he rattles the very fabric
Of this world
There is no procrastinating belly
Exposed by a lackluster display
No one insults his strength
By creating a make believe world
Or covers him with scaffolding so
That they may alter him
For he is the finished article
And he is never held up or supported
With anyone's emotional ropes or strings
For he no ones puppet
He is never silenced
By the Strangle hold of this world
Tightened with a multitude of gestures
For I hear his ROAR!!!!!!!!
His explosive self expression
As his throat bursts and beams like the sun
Breaking all collars, and his tongue is freed
As a thousand trap doors Open up in him
And boulders are lifted and rocks are shattered
within the sound of his voice.
His Soft pads of silent stealth
Gather for all his wealth
As the power of his pounce
Is governed by both his strength
Of spirit and the honesty
With which he meets the earth
For he owns all of his own pain
And paces and growls to warn
Away any who seek to steal his fresh ****
And diminish him with pretty lies
For he owns all his space
As it feeds his strength
As somewhere in the fury of feasting
Lionesses and Lions
We find our freedom
For his power explodes like a volcano
When his soul meets the earth
As he shakes off all avoidance
To seek only truth
As streaks of white light
And pure Gold glisten in the SUN
As the world's projections
Reflect and bounce off him
There is so much to learn
From a beautiful LION
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
this is a tale
of two star-crossed lovers
with a love so powerful
they tainted the heavens
with bursts of colours
they were never meant to be;
mischievous little kids
finding love in sinful glee
in laughter, between dreams and reality
and though it was lawless,
they found solace
because in every prison,
they found a rhyme and a reason
but even for a love so great,
they could not escape
the fates’ wrath and envy
destiny pulled on their threads
cut them loose, thrusted them into misery;
for their memories were wiped clean,
but feelings remained as strong as they had ever been
the boy exiled in a far off land
across the pacific sea
the girl trapped in her need to break free
in a realm both boring and bland
ensnared in a labyrinth of woe
the lovers yearned for anything—
for something, for someone,
to obliterate this endless longing
the gods answered them
in the form of two loved ones
polished in every edge,
a perfect someone
but perfect felt too perfect
and not perfect enough
to fill up the hole
left by a perfectly imperfect
until one day the gods whispered
for the winds to push the two
and the birds to tug at their sleeves
over mountain and sea
even through the darkest valley
so their paths would finally meet
and so they did.
in the flurry of a moment
a pair of brown eyes met
and time was frozen
once more
the two stared intently
as if remembering a broken melody
a lost childhood song
branded as a wrong
the birds fluttered and flew
taking the cursed red fibre
snipped them in two
and the lovers felt all the lighter
it was the girl who spoke first:
**** the stars.
i don’t want perfect,
i want you.”*
eyes dazzling, the boy nodded:
*“we’ll invert the universe—
the night sky a blank white
the stars pitch black
the earth moving in reverse”*
the fates saw and surrendered
as the stars began to wither
for this love is love
in all its splendor
so the lovers walked away with a promise
under their breaths, they both swore:
*“i lost you once,
but nevermore.”*
****
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 10:46 PM UTC
He has taken rake and shovel in hand,
Taking advantage of the light,
Rare in these climes this time of year,
Still welcomed, though rendered severe
By the sun's reluctant trudge above the horizon,
The type which, sauntering through a window pane
(Falling upon a crucifix anchored above a cradle
Or some ancient, gilded frame
Containing a photo of some grandparent's wedding day,
Exploding into full undifferentiated diffusion)
May possess a dram of warmth, albeit resigned, nostalgic
A bittersweet reminder of what has gone by
(And in the shade, the air is filled
With the portentous chill of what lies a few months hence)
But there nonetheless as he tends to those final farewells
From the trees bowing to December's inevitability,
The droppings not the Pollock-esque bursts of October
(Those having been collected and consigned
To the normal corner of the back lot)
But dreary brown-hued things, not welcomed by eye nor heart,
Simply corralled perfunctorily and dismissed.
One could contend that such activity is unnecessary,
The mere vanity of all endeavor,
As the snow will come soon, and steady as well,
Performing the seasonal, cyclical function in its own time,
But he soldiers on nonetheless, a unseen one-act nearly-farce,
Painstakingly raking and bending and scraping
To leave his patch of green uncovered for a little while
Until the locking time comes to seal the earth's secrets once more,
To be revealed to those
Who shall receive the teasing ministrations
Of the fickle, fitful March equinox.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
Put your head down
and werk.
Put your feet up
and twerk.
Run quickly
and watch the
pavement blur.
Don't ask questions.
Love you answers,
and explanations,
your valuations,
and justifications.
In the mood for pizza?
Cause the shop's on your left.
In 0.5 miles, it will be on your left.
ON YOUR LEFT.
YOUR DESTINATION IS ON THE LEFT.
Rerouting...
the protocol is exactly THIS,
not THAT.
So just do it.
checkmark.
Nike said so.
Just buy it.
we suggest it.
Just try the Quesarilla
#tacobell #mexicanfood #foodporn
#pleasegetmemoreviews
How bout a selfie
where you look miserable
and unhealthy.
But you're a celebrity.
Rub your likeness
on me and
I'll get you publicity.
#fire
#ice
#rain
What happened to real pain?
And did dissonance disappear?
Why must I hide my tears?
And be bright and happy
And ogle guys with fohawks
trimmed so carefully.
And live a lie,
of numbers and rye
bread is the worst,
sandwiched in bursts.
We all live
and we all hurt
and we all deserve
a life like hers.
who you say?
Kim Kardashian,
of course.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC
i do not sing the storm. i do not sing rage, wrath
the lightning bolt, the scream. Despair i do not sing
i do not sing struggle–revenge poisonous blast–
the hurricane, the quake that tears the city of peace
i do not sing no border. i do not sing no flag
i do not sing no warrior but she that fights all fear
Poverty & sickness-night, the blade, the club, the trap
blows, wounds, cries, lies, bursts & war-blood i do not sing
i do not sing despise for any thing or being
i do not praise no richness no governors, no kings
From all this flower-garden i pick one single rose:
creation is just dew upon the rose of love
i celebrate one flame. i only sing one blues:
the flame of endless loving with you & only you
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 8:28 PM UTC
"sly wordplay, it glows, feels like a shimmering address, half warning and half blessing, really alive with cadence"
read Kiki Dresden poetry^
once more into the sea trench divide,
I dive to devise,
Your provoking comment,
demands my full attention,
you divert me from struggling with
ginger & clay,
a contra concept
that molds and enflames,
yet strikes overtly sweet,
it does not
come so easy
as this playful notion
But
your words deserve the
attention immédiate
atenção imediata
that births this script,
tumbling forth in an instantly
instantaneously
me student, you mistress~master,
schooling me on sublimity subliminal,
capturing the capering
stylistic that bursts forth from within,
that my fingertips provide,
while my brain connives & connivers
continuously
you overlay analytics
that never are to me
revealed,
the what and wherefore
of the whom
hiding within
of the im~perpetuity impish essence of
i m p ishness
by charmingly doing me, not once,
but many times better
here a spillage:
an observational ditty,
dressed in a tux,
most formally,
to render the greatest
wordplay
ever invented
t,
the uniqueness of a simple
thank you
my favorite poem
a forever for ever,
the song that
plys and plays me
in the me
so often,
the linguists have banned the word
repeatedly
from my lexicon
so in its stead,
this all-in-one mighty steed
(verb phrase, a noun, or an adjective depending on its usage)
this phatic expression,
here disguised in
Portuguese,
muito obrigado!
muito obrigado!
muito obrigado!
nml 5:39am nyc 10/4, 10/4
Oct 4, 2025
Oct 4, 2025 at 5:44 AM UTC
running
deliquescing into nature
i am engulfed in stillness
i encounter a deer as i round a corner
its chestnut eyes intensely sense
something wild within me
transfixed
we meld palpably
whispering our essence
myopic views warp into acute focus
golden flowers stretch and arch
and yawning into the sun
swell with bursts of luster
whilst violets polka dot the path
with lilac luminescence
dead tree trunks
mutating into masterpieces
yearn for new life
drawing in the squirrels
yellow-bellied birds
hover
sensing my motions
whilst woodland winds undulate
pine scented waves of sea salt oceans
my ears enchantingly enhanced
by bristling leaves caressing trees
as scintillating amber butterflies
dance in synch
with the clock tower’s
ancient chiming
a gust of wind
catches a patch of sand
and sends it quivering
fusing high in summer air
then falling soft as feathers
hidden fairies prance about
answering unheard questions
problems dissolve in emerald meadows
without a hint of striving
essays write themselves
upon my mind
poetry flows through me
wings of meadowlarks
trace my face with nuances
interlaced with connotations
rushing home
i write it down
then bowing i take credit
for what was etched upon my soul
by a sunbeam in the forest
©2016janetaylor
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 10:09 PM UTC
'Why is it so painful to grow?'
A seed.
Just a seed buried under the ground.
Under the pressure of the soil,
It fights to grow.
The seed cracks,
such a sturdy little seed,
opens with a painful snap.
A sprout coils out.
Out of the cracked little seed.
A sprout now crushed under,
Under the pressure of the unforgiving ground.
Yet still... It grows.
A little sprout,
Now reaches up.
Up and away from the little seed,
and up to the light of the sun.
Pushing and groaning it bursts out.
Out from the unforgiving ground.
Yet now new dangers are to be found.
Will it be trampled
Or eaten alive?
The possibilities are endless,
The ways it could die.
And still.. it grows.
The sprout toils endlessly,
always stretching and growing
Reaching for the crimson sun.
The rain falls down
beating upon the sprout.
Pelting it's skin and whipping it about.
It skin hardens painfully,
and sprout becomes stem.
And still It grows.
The stem keeps reaching,
Stretching to the sky.
The stem then splits
It rips in two a bud appears
A little bud,
With so much to do.
Then the bud breaks
A crack appears
a petal unfurls from within.
Then it's a bloom.
Such a sweet little thing.
Until the crack stretches
So the bloom can grow
In to the beautiful rose
We've all come to know.
And still.. it grows.
Thorns burst free
Breaking out of the stem
And petals billow and grow in the breeze.
Then you see me,
And my beauty delights you,
So you wish to see me every day.
And your scissors encircle me
To give you your way.
They cut me in half.
They slice me in two.
being a rose,
There was naught I could do.
You carry me with you,
Your hands coated in my blood,
I'm dying slowly,
All for your love.
And now... I can't grow.
So as I bleed and wither in pain,
You place me in a vase
Or press me in a book,
All to save the bloom for another day.
And as I gasp for air,
Among your dry pages,
You leech me of all life,
Perfectly preserved
just so I could last the ages.
Or else I am drowning
In glass and water
My beauty wasted
hour by hour
Day by day
All to satisfy your whimsical ways.
And now all I wish to know,
'Why is it so painful to grow?'
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
The artist is the one who is up all night,
The artist is the one who looks lost,
The artist is the one who fears no tyrant,
Because it just becomes the next piece.
The artist is the one who cries out with a pen,
The artist is the one who finds safety in a brush,
The artist is the one whose enemy is the blank spaces,
Because that's where there is uniformity and potential.
The artist is the one who retorts injustice,
The artist is the one who rips at the seams,
The artist is the one who screams at the world,
Because it seems no one will listen.
But never does that stop the artist,
For the artist is one of persistence,
A never ending fire that burns inside,
A passion that will never die.
Without the artist our world will crumble,
Without the artist our life will go gray,
Without the artist our days would be lonely,
Because that's when the blank spaces win.
It's the color that bursts from the mind,
It's the thought that paints the sky,
It's the music that gives us hope,
Because it's only with the artist we see reason to be alive.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 1:54 AM UTC
There are fireworks
Everywhere.
Small & big reminders
Of everywhere we’ve been.
Above the rooftops, above our
Top lips, in tremendous fashion.
Spread far, your soul & mine.
I couldn’t imagine life
Without you.
Something out of the blue,
Loud & breathtaking.
How we’ve inspired each other
In quick rocket bursts.
If nothing else we’ve learned
That in a matter of minutes
It can all come to an end.
The way you kiss me &
The ethos of traveling souls
Finding a color to forever live in.
I’ve found a place, there are
Fireworks everywhere.
If nothing else, we’ve learned
That in a matter of minutes
it can all come to an end.
& when it does, I’ll race you
To the top & kiss you and
Every memory I have of you.
The cosmos of left over
Gunpowder & shredded paper
All combustible in our celebration.
With eyes closed,
& the sizzling palpitation of my heart.
Possibly the biggest reminder.
Whenever I see fireworks,
I think of you
Jun 29, 2021
Jun 29, 2021 at 11:11 AM UTC
The finest singer in the sea
I heard upon this morn
And in that strange sonorous tone
A universe was born
The low melodic wailing touched
And roused me from my sleep
As the humpback lithe and languid
Made a turn and sounded deep
And as my mind awakes it turns
To whales large and small
To the snowy white beluga
The canary of them all
The clicking bursts of ***** whales
And the California grey
The fin whale speaks across the sea
To those a world away
The short and longfinned pilot whales
With whistles quite complex
The striking graceful orcas
Speak in different dialects
But it is the great blue whale
That makes the loudest cry
Though it is far too rare today
With such an awful why
But on this wondrous morning I
Am filled with joyous glee
That God has given life to whales
And gave to them the sea
Cori MacNaughton
24Oct2000
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
I’ve died
I’ve felt the brunt of dis-ease like a disease
The final straw that has broken my heart
Drove a stake through instead
Why now?
The leftover time I’ve been allowed
Is filled with hollowed out emptiness
The screams of pain when there is no one to answer me
Bursts my life at the seams
I have died
I’m gone for sure this time
I cannot even fill the time I have in between
Because I am numb
Dead inside
Without that genuine human touch with no hurtful motive
I’ve gone and died
Withered blossoms of socialization should have fought hard
Hardly fought instead
The weak politeness crept out
I have died
With no thought for the future
I’ve cut my past off to live in the blankness of the present
Don’t fret
I never really lived anyway.
cc111911
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 11:57 PM UTC
A look at life through a child's eyes
Is pure and honest; without disguise
A life of joy and wonder and grace
And here we are: running in place
The miracle of a rainbow, the beauty of a blade of grass
Finding untold treasure where others see only trash
Listen. Here the thrum of wind on golden strings
The bells sounding clear and pure in the trees they sing
A look at life through a child's eyes
Is pure and honest; without disguise
A life of joy and wonder and grace
And here we are: running in place
Feel the complex dance around you come alive as you are filled
With a racing spirit and feet that won't be stilled
A song bursts forth just like the morning sun
And overflows and covers you until you and it are one
A look at life through a child's eyes
Is pure and honest; without disguise
A life of joy and wonder and grace
And here we are: running in place
We lose sight of what's important as we fight to survive
But if we stop to look through a child's eyes we learn to truly thrive
A look at life through a child's eyes
Is pure and honest; without disguise
A life of joy and wonder and grace
But here we are: running in place
A life of joy and wonder greets the sun in morning sky
A life of joy and wonder will run free and learn to fly
A life of joy and wonder finds gladness in the rain
A life of joy and wonder finds healing amidst the pain
A look at life through a child's eyes
Is pure and honest; without disguise
A life of joy and wonder and grace
But here we are running in place
A look at life through a child's eyes
Is pure and honest; without disguise
A child's eyes are bright and strong; they don't dull or dim
You might hear their quiet song if you stop and listen
There is a life of joy and wonder and grace
But here we are running in place
A life of joy and wonder takes patience, love, and care
It takes a long time, many years till we get there
But a life of joy and wonder is a precious thing I'm told...
Because a life of joy and wonder far surpasses the value of gold!
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
an eagle riding the bursts of wind
a boat sailing across the sea
running wild through wildflowers
just letting it be
daring to be yourself no matter what others may think
living life openly without one blink
freedom
- j.m.d.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
The invisible scar
Of the patriarchy
Hangs over us
Masked by the shadows of tradition
Concealed within
Dazzling bursts of color
Billowing skirts
And spirited dancing
Hot acid flung
Scathing, searing, scalding
Because weak men
Cannot handle rejection
Wed the one you love
And bring shame
Upon the family
Honor killings
Does ******
Bring Dignity?
#JusticeforNirbhaya
#JusticeforAsifa
And now #JusticeforAiman
Our only crime
Is being female
Yet fingers are still pointed
At us
At the length of our dresses
At the makeup on our faces
At the way we smiled
How long
Until we are finally fed up
With a society
That would rather
A corpse
Over a girl?
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 12:07 PM UTC
Sweaty shuffle, gloved hands
light fuse, twitching in countdown
until heels spark trigger,
cannons drumming grass
driven by bellows,
magnesium snort
in wind-whipped ears
until gunshot
snap:
shell bursts,
shattered tendons
man falling into dust
while fragments *****
burning air, tearing turf
as cheers become screams,
awaiting another bullet.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
In the mixing bowl
thou hast perfected praise.
Conforming to your mould,
your flaky crust begins to rise.
Steamy and buttery out of the oven,
you make my life chill,
when the morsel of butter enters the
blueberry canyon
to have its fill
Chemically inducing nirvana,
a world in the eye of God,
blueberry bursts of epic epicness
down my throat you trod.
In my stomach you swim, my friend.
"It is not good for muffin to be alone,"
pop goes the cherry muffin to join you,
and in swims a blueberry clone.
Nom nom nom.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
She's better than the rest. One of the best.
She is smart. VERY SMART!!
Her laughter is pure, like of a small kid.
She makes a strange face when studying like burden of whole world is on her shoulders.
She sings,she plays,
she does dancing , she does everything.
She's a great friend.
All these things make her better than the rest
but what makes her unique?
It is that penguin walk of her when she is walking back from college but her hands stay still.
It's her revenge plotting looks when she is trying to concentrate and look into microscope.
It's her meeky voice in front of teachers which usually bursts on random occasions.
She would talk to you like she's an old friend.
Everyone likes her.
She just wants to be a firefly but she is indeed the sun.
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 7:06 AM UTC
A little boy
Neat white shirt ironed to perfection
A monster truck plastered on the front
Denim jeans, fitting his skinny waist just right
Innovative
Imaginative
He loves creating new things
Making plain old cardboard into the next best thing
He gets his crayons
Sharpies and all
And runs to his room
All excited on his new project, his new creation
One piece of cardboard after the other
Rectangles flying everywhere
Coloring what looks like door handles onto cardboard?
The vision isn’t clear, yet it will come together soon.
He works quickly
With a due date set in mind
Full of ambition
The vision isn’t clear, yet it will come together soon.
He finishes his new achievement
Smiling happily at his new jumble of handiwork
Glued together precisely
The vision isn’t clear, yet it will come together soon.
He attaches the different shapes to himself
Straps glued to the cardboard
It seems he’s wearing armor
With doorknobs and wood grain painted on it with pure artistry
He hears someone come in the front door
His smile turns to panic
He quickly cleans up the supplies
Throwing things around the room anywhere they fit
He runs to the corner of his room
He quickly pulls the “armor” close to him
As he sits in the fetal position
His armor becomes a small dresser that looks as if it was made for clothes
The father bursts into the room
With rage spelled out on his forehead
The boy hides brilliantly afraid of the wrath to come
The father looks around the room carefully
*Come out Come out
Wherever you are
The next time I see you
I’ll give you more bruises than last week altogether*
He closes the door with a loud slam
The boy unfolds his creation, a simple dresser
Who knew that a young boy’s imagination
Would protect him from all of the horror and pain usually unleashed on him
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
I.
I'm writing to tell you that I've spoken with your sister.
She tells me everything these days, though recently I've marked the way her voice conceals a quiet shame; rage in casual tones, and fear in quiet whispers.
I haven't kissed her in quite some time.
She's thinking of you.
II.
I'm sorry that I haven't written sooner. This fasting saps volition from my fingers, and the hot smell of ozone still lingers in the air.
But everywhere I see you on the news.
Has Ramadan been hard for you this year? I'm looking forward to hearing from you. I want to know that you are near once more. Please write.
III.
I saw an action flick today, and something of you in the way the heroine roared and flipped her hair just before letting a rocket fly.
I thought that I would die of suspense until the moment when the hero rose from the rubble to stand above his foes.
Crows circled. Credits rolled.
IV.
Thunder tolls. The atmosphere crackles and bursts. It's early yet, and not even my worst. My warring hands will never give you peace. An endless war-song issues from my lips.
You are not brave enough, dear girl, to resist destruction by my hand. The bomb blessed by my lips is indifferent, darling boy.
I will consume the gardens planted with your seeds.
V.
Bismillah, arrahman, arraheem.
VI.
Blessed is he who cries out for peace.
The Lord sees him and sees that he is good.
Blessed is she who dines before the sunrise and loses her life at noon, still clad in vestments of her childhood.
VII.
Eid Mubarak, and peace be with you every year. I've yet to hear from you.
I saw your sister again today. Whatever tinged her voice still holds her.
She said she hasn't written.
It matters who writes, so write a love-letter, I told her.
She's thinking of you.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
My fingers tangle and trip
over sloppy knitting
like a deer
learning to walk on crooked
pencil legs.
Like a song I don't quite
know the words to.
I move unsteadily,
uncertain, with short shaky breaths.
Remember when I taught my lungs
to breathe again in August?
After so many mistakes that
I didn't know how to
reconcile.
I wanted to die out back
of a hotel in Montana, dramatic
in the weeds and grasshoppers.
Needles fighting, I
spread a mess of mustard yarn
across my fingers like
I need a napkin.
Has anything changed?
Dropped stitches, weary knots leaving
gaping holes.
I think of how I ran away
from it all.
There are days I still look back.
But I look straight into the sky
as if demanding an explanation from
God himself.
I have to shade my eyes
sometimes,
seeing blinding brilliance
in the sun now.
I can't live any longer only
by the light it sheds
everywhere else.
No, in births of light and bursts
of truth and slow, overdue breaths
is a song I'm finally learning
the words to.
You will not defeat me.
I rip out my knots
and begin again.
Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 12:07 PM UTC
ripe wild blueberries
nestled under tall fir trees
sweet **** juice bursts forth
Copyright © 2014 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC