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"gauzey" poems
Daddy takes me to the greenhouse, behind our rotted trailer, deep in sovereign backwoods. Marsh voices, thick like tupelo honey. The coo of a loon, hiss of a cottonmouth, shiver of a snapping turtle. The silver of swamp lilies lip the land in wild haze, a veil of ochre moss tickles my nose like gauzey ginger ale and soil clings to my ankles like a lonesome hound. Daddy’s greenhouse is a shed, a haven. A milieu of magic and fleur-de-cannabis where pixies pull my curls and gnomes dance under mushroom parasols. My hands dip into a hollow of muddy earthworms. I feel akin to the yellow blood of a butterfly or pale jade of perplexing geckos. Daddy is a shaman. He trims holy blooms that come from spirits who sing in the wind like the whippoorwill at dusk. Snipping sticky bushels, he pads tufts into his pipe, carved in the shape of a sullen armadillo. I watch him inhale. His breath stiff as a braid of mangroves. He exhales a ligneous cough. I don’t mind, much.
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Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
tigremilk
In the Swamp of '96
Daddy takes me to the greenhouse, behind our rotted trailer, deep in sovereign backwoods. Marsh voices, thick like tupelo honey. The coo of a loon, hiss of a cottonmouth, shiver of a snapping turtle. The silver of swamp lilies lip the land in wild haze, a veil of ochre moss tickles my nose like gauzey ginger ale and soil clings to my ankles like a lonesome hound. Daddy’s greenhouse is a shed, a haven. A milieu of magic and fleur-de-cannabis where pixies pull my curls and gnomes dance under mushroom parasols. My hands dip into a hollow of muddy earthworms. I feel akin to the yellow blood of a butterfly or pale jade of perplexing geckos. Daddy is a shaman. He trims holy blooms that come from spirits who sing in the wind like the whippoorwill at dusk. Snipping sticky bushels, he pads tufts into his pipe, carved in the shape of a sullen armadillo. I watch him inhale. His breath stiff as a braid of mangroves. He exhales a ligneous cough. I don’t mind, much.
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We the gentle Are meant for Sentimental For charcoal pencil thumb-smudged skies Over lamplit rented rooms on the Seine Moonlight gauzey glamoured eyes Grimy hands that write paint spin, throw clay, that grab our grandfather’s violin at all hours of the day and play. Mad with passion, starving, raving, gorged on lush love-struck life abundant, on rain-slicked splendor. We the gentle Bend toward each other in salvation as sunflowers turn inward in the absence of sunlight. Salvation. It’s all wrong We do not belong do not belong. Bloodletting stardust into the vents Hearts rent and free bleeding Feeding the over fed No page or paint, no violin No romance, no gods here But Death and Dread. We the gentle Get no roses but see red red red with arms outstretched, Fighting the tide Soft bodies open minds Not weak but kind Once fruit, now rind We aren’t meant for these times. Clear eyed and noncompliant, We who know the essence of Love Defiant, Truth in muck, truth in starlight, We feel the press on all ******* sides To run, to hide And instead sing, paint, play Write.
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Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 7:31 AM UTC
elizabeth-kelly
Defiant
We the gentle Are meant for Sentimental For charcoal pencil thumb-smudged skies Over lamplit rented rooms on the Seine Moonlight gauzey glamoured eyes Grimy hands that write paint spin, throw clay, that grab our grandfather’s violin at all hours of the day and play. Mad with passion, starving, raving, gorged on lush love-struck life abundant, on rain-slicked splendor. We the gentle Bend toward each other in salvation as sunflowers turn inward in the absence of sunlight. Salvation. It’s all wrong We do not belong do not belong. Bloodletting stardust into the vents Hearts rent and free bleeding Feeding the over fed No page or paint, no violin No romance, no gods here But Death and Dread. We the gentle Get no roses but see red red red with arms outstretched, Fighting the tide Soft bodies open minds Not weak but kind Once fruit, now rind We aren’t meant for these times. Clear eyed and noncompliant, We who know the essence of Love Defiant, Truth in muck, truth in starlight, We feel the press on all ******* sides To run, to hide And instead sing, paint, play Write.
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