"undersides" poems
The sun is setting on a hot day, he hides coyly behind tall sycamores, his reflection playing on the undersides of trees on the riverbank. His warm breath is the breeze that kisses my cheek. The river carries me on, over pebbles and rocks below the glassy surface. Dragonflies dart around, flying gems that glisten in the sun. The heron, with diligent patience, hides seamlessly in the trees awaiting his next meal. He takes off when I get near, his frame is much larger in flight. The sweetness of honeysuckle is thick in this warm air. The trees on the riverbank are laden and dripping of the sweet flowers. As I gently glide through the water, the waves lap against my boat, almost making the sound of kisses. This is my river time. All these beautiful things, I love. There is passion in Nature, it is in birdsong and in the breeze. It is in the river as it moves along and the swaying of the trees. This is where I breathe.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
#STICK’EM UP with LIQUID NAILS
DANGER ! EXTREMELY FLAMMABLE
See Other Caution on Back Panel:
I’m hot for you Cowgirl – you’re so flammable my glue-gun starts to melt; my screwdriver starts twisting when you loosen that low-slung belt. You make me feel like laying re-bar in a freshly-poured foundation. Shoot me up with that caulk gun baby – I need you like salvation. Ten and one-half fluid ounces – pull off your top, pop a love-cap in me. Fingerin’ your trigger while the job is gettin’ bigger so take me for a ride to the hardware store, honey, cause I’m seeing red and feeling white on your golden background’s sheer delight. Hammer me a heart-full, spike me on a cross of blonde, I’m hanging ten, surfing the tube of your magic wand. I’ve been in love ever since I first waterproofed my seamy undersides with you… stand over me in those red, red boots, you Liquid Nails Girl – and from your pure white Stetson let righteousness unfurl. You won the shoot-out long before you even drew, my dear. Lost hope of the Wild West, Final Frontal Feminine Frontier – there’s only one side of you… your GOOD side. Just one look and your fearless gaze silences the foes, my blooming prairie rose.
YEE – HAW ! Be my angel, be my dream, my valentine rodeo queen, be my bodyguard, my therapist, long & tall & hard & wet – be my Liquid Nails Girl forever and I’ll ride right into your sunset…
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
a light breeze stirs the tops of the trees into a tantric dance
in a section of the sky i've only ever dreamt of thriving in.
magic stirs the dust...
and it coats my eyelashes and the undersides of my finger-nails,
and falls from my skin softly-
the way stars descend through atmospheres.
there is sweetness in the air.
moon-beams basket-weave through night-sky hair
and tap-dance their way around my neck,
adorning me in their celestial secrets.
i create and name my own constellations
from the vantage point of a little girl beneath a big sky,
connecting distant points of light with nebulous-lassos flying from my fingertips.
i am golden.
in this moment,
i am beautiful...
if only i could remember.
preserve this feeling right now-
scoop it from the encroaching dusk,
and trap it in a glass bell jar like a firefly,
and feed on its light forever.
if i could remember that i do love myself-
maybe i'll survive...
perhaps even flourish.
rebellious song birds whisper through the night-
accompanying the melody of breaking waves-
a lullaby from the universe that only i will ever know.
i hum along in thoughtful bliss.
this ends the separation-
from myself,
from loving,
from FEELING;
right now i feel everything.
love,
light,
warmth,
beauty,
and the courage necessary to finally acquire a sense of freedom that can never die.
i am living,
to the very best of the definition...
that's got to be enough for you-
for ALL of you-
because i finally see that it's enough for me...
and for the stars.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
I spent months
setting them up
those emotional "dominoes"
black rectangles on end
balanced just so
white spots spelling out
ego
emotions
soul
just a sharp stroke
of a tongue
on one corner
and
they fall...
and fall...
and fall...
they lay
scattered
and
chaotic
on their backs
like beetles
unable to turn
their undersides exposed
and vulnerable
how many times
can they be realigned
how many times
before the spots erode
how many times
before it's empty inside
like dead beetles'
dry, brittle shells?
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 11:11 AM UTC
the drunkard crawls from an infinite sea of sadness,
their screams echo
into an enormous black sky,
upon finding their sun
which was once an incessant ***** red,
now a cold mass of midnight blue,
abandoning its worshipper
to revel in darkness,
to freeze from a deathly chill of loneliness,
to melt from the nights' stinging raindrops of reality.
but the drunkards,
and only the drunkards,
are secretly admitted
into the hollow asylum of the traitorous mind,
where some imagined eerie light
bathes the shadows,
where they feel the solitude enveloping their bodies
with an alien warmth,
where the raindrops intoxicate their insides
like thick, sugary syrup;
a place where they
willingly drug themselves
into an ignorant stupor,
painting translucent
dreams of yesterday
upon the undersides of their eyelids,
and seeing them
as the art of the future.
solely possessing the key
to the invisible shackles
that chain them
to equally invisible walls,
they lie back in relief,
upon silken feather dust pillows,
comforted by a styrofoam fortress,
while blissfully wasting away
in their drunken
narcotic haven.
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 10:11 PM UTC
do not fall for a boy with a pirate heart, even if he will
cross five thousand miles of sand and ocean to be with you,
carrying nothing more than loneliness and longing in his cargo hold.
those things will bond you both together like an oath, but
blood is thicker than water and soon, the promises will weigh you down
like rocks in your pocket, keeping your lungs and heart empty.
he will not stay, something will always call him away in the morning,
even after you've spent the night wrapped in his strong arms,
counting the stars from the undersides of the highest sail.
you will listen to his stories, for they will stretch beyond the decks
of his ship and make you feel both empty and full at once,
but you cannot rely on a tattooed smile to forge you a key to the world.
eventually, he will leave you on stranger shores, soaking and breathless,
wondering when the next tide will bring him close to you again.
but you are not a ***** he found bar-side, never call yourself that.
you must be unpredictable and wild as the sea itself, bottling storms
into your heartbeat and braiding a barrier reef into your hair.
you are calypso, dangerous and beautiful and unyielding,
and if he comes back ten years from now to set foot on the shore,
you will not be waiting. you cannot always be waiting.
he might tell you he loves you. but even then, he is only speaking
about the seventy percent he is familiar with, the part that is pulled into
rises and falls by the moon, a dna sequence patterned by the earth itself.
do not answer him. steal his ship by sunrise instead and plan to follow
the treasure map that you've long since forgotten. never come back.
leave him with a seashell at his side and he will remember at last
that the reason he loved the ocean was because it sounded like you.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 4:22 AM UTC
I feel it in my fingertips
when you tell me how you worry.
I feel it most in my ring finger—
Isn’t that strange?
The sea in my ribcage tosses,
and your Navy boat of which the name I forget rocks upon it.
You are unsure if you’ll be coming home on time.
I watch the waves from the opposite coast,
making note of how tall they are,
how dark,
and suddenly I am in them
as they are within me.
They beat against the undersides of my skin,
so hard that I pray
for the first time in ten years,
asking God to watch over us,
to bless this gorgeous thing we have.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
there is a crusted-
over, nasty-
looking cut
on
my left
knee
from a bike
accident
I had the
other
day
both of my
big toes have
calluses that
size of quarters
on the
inside-back
parts
of
their
undersides
tiny sunburns
from where my
feet stuck
out of
the sand
decorate my left
and right
feet
my pale belly
and legs
seem ever whiter
in comparison
to my sunburnt and
darkening arms
there is somebody
out there who thinks
I am beautiful
how have stayed strong
all these years?
I can see my ugliness,
my scars, and my abrasions
just the same as everybody
else
they are there
they are morbid
and disgusting
they are who
I am and I act
as such
I know exactly why
and how people hate
me
yet
I’ve never faltered
in a hurricane or
the breeze
I am who I am
I say
and nothing more
still stories flutter,
rumors fly, and
I can’t help but
notice the stores
and tales that
circulate
I’m lucky someone
still finds time to look
at me straight
perhaps the strongest of men
are only left with the opportunity
to gain
Apr 8, 2011
Apr 8, 2011 at 5:49 AM UTC
The world’s smallest basket lies tucked away
Inside a jar for field-trip wide open
Eyes of wonder to chew on, settled in
The drooling smiles of truant minds like most
Sticky wads of gum that hang dried to the
Undersides of every desk throughout the
Pine Belt area of Free State County,
And all that surrounds circled about one
Solitary clandestine blade of grass
Tucked & woven into antiquity
By enchanted hands, & no doubt the work
Of Ma Universe slippin’ her divine
Fingers inside the dirt-caked skin she’d
Herself sewn onto one of her very
Own living/breathing marionettes,
Borrowing the gloves of ancestors called on
All the way to back to the first blade of grass
Plucked, & the first dreams that woke young shaman
Poets mad with visions streaming like
Images from celestial antennas
Into intricately knit blades of grass,
Sharpened on dewdrops & the unforgiving
Wilderness of frontiers, like a sea of
Green knives crashing their piercing waves on prairie
Shores while dull eyes attempt to draw blood with
Sharpened pencils on a sketch of its beach.
The towering sandcastles & woven
Baskets & cosmic canons are canonized
Eternal in that magnificent
Fireworks show behind tempered glass, in that
One simple blade of grass.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
When I look at you,
I can feel the Nile river gushing from
my arteries and separating into
the most delicate of tributaries.
When I look at you,
my bone marrow jolts my body forward
because you’re east and i’m west but
if we followed the lines of longitude
it’s impossible for us not to meet again.
When I look at you,
I smell bleach and roses
both burning the back of my throat,
one covering and the other cleaning.
When I look at you,
I feel warmth
but the real kind
not the the heat from a couple shots of absinthe.
When I look at you
my heart flys up and squeezes into
the delicate space between the two hemispheres of my brain
and suddenly you consume
me.
So when you left
I stopped looking at you,
looking for you,
looking for your hands on my ribs
or the hair of your leg brushing the back of my calf.
I tried to stop longing for the proclamations of love that you
whispered directly into my ear so
the wind couldn't ****** the seven letters before I got to hold them.
When I had looked at you
I did not want to admit that the red strings
that tied our calloused fingertips together
had begun to fray and snap.
When your presence became to fragile for my fingers to touch
and the ashes of burned rose petals
would fall into my palms.
I would swallow them
and try to remind myself of their-your
your once velvet beauty.
But charcoal is only used to extract poison from a bloodstream.
I refused to believe that you were the poison and I would open bottle
after bottle after bottle of red wine because
it was my-our-your favorite type of drink.
My red stained lips would get trapped on the neck of the bottle
until neither alcohol nor oxygen remained inside
and only shattered glass and ****** knuckles.
I tried to leave hickeys on the walls and pretend
it was your neck but my lungs were too empty from my screaming.
When they burned from your absence
I ate the charred alveoli
and hoped it would absorb a little bit of the pain.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 7:46 PM UTC
I watched spiders make their webs
Four to five paces apart
North to south along the ficus hedge
Anchored nearest to the green wall
Each two knuckles wide
Street lamp orange undersides
Yellow tiny joints
Each moved quickly
Set to finish its trap before the night settled full
I discovered them while walking
Seeking familiar toxin
And found them
Masters of their craft
The first I saw caught that caught my sight
The furious movement of rear limbs
Catching the stream of silk
Guiding it on its way
Jagged plucking stemming a straight line
Then laying over a guiding wire
And moving on
From four o’clock to eight it went
Then back along the clock’s face
Its red underside patient but swiftly going and pulling along
Leading a tiny line of molten muted silver
Five to eight and back again
Pendulumous and measured geometry
Dancing back and forth
Then I saw the second
South I crept with knees bent low
Shrank a hand’s breadth
Swift and wonderstruck
And it too worked a masterful weave
So similar but when I looked back
I saw the difference
More than size of form between them
Slight as was their difference
Unique minutiae of brown fuzzy backs and brown fuzzy heads
Varying personalities and style
Artisans of the same renaissance
And soon I saw a third
South still and still different
Higher up to catch the light
Still giving light to its neighbor
Who lets the light reach her neighbor
A fourth’s stilled anchor
Taught and shining in the light
Beneath the indigo sky
Highest of them all
Largest of them all
If in the beginning of their dance
Drawing cracked windows in the sky
Nets or webs or sails
I might have seen them
Forming a rainbow arc
A fragment of such a thing
But I did not
My wonder and my mind
The first catch of the night
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 10:46 PM UTC
I made a 12 egg omelet for dinner
Not just for me, mind you,
But stuffed with milk, garlic, onion and two cheeses
Half as big as our whale sized pan and oh solo cheesy
It was such a delightfully delicious omelet
But of course, I couldn't make a beautiful thing without a dash of pain
Once, twice, thrice, four times I gripped that accursed handle
I burnt my fingers so the places where I grip my own are now slightly leathered
Sighing with exasperation, I lean across for the spatula and
ZING what do you know?
One more stripe of seared flesh on the forearm
Of course it hurt (when does fire not burn?)
But now I can't help but laugh, as the undersides of my fingers feel like a wallet
And my forearm a new splash of paint
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
God made me human
she was feeling capricious that day
actually I was meant to be a frog
green and certain, self contained
content to simply squat and watch
flick a sticky tongue at a passing bug
observer of two worlds
at home in both
a leap-in-waiting
able when need or impulse
dictates to skedaddle
with the nonchalance of a Buddha
a gleam of green and gold
glistening on a lily leaf
or kerplunking into deep cool water
Frog had I such toes such elegant legs
I too could scrutinise the mysteries
of pools, the undersides of lilypads
do you wonder Frog
whether there are other ponds
do you dream a dream of elsewhere
do you pause to peer skywards
harbour a secret wish for wings
ah, what may lie beyond your pool
but perhaps I ascribe
too much mystery to you Frog
you simply are
whilst I, I am stuck in wondering,
trying to connect two worlds two realities
**** **** the divine indifference
Tricia Lambert
2010
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC
he is space
the freckles that dust his nose and cheeks
are constellations
stories untold
the dark purple that bruises
the undersides of his eyes
are areas of the night sky
that are absent of stars
yet full of hardship
his eyes glisten like galaxies
colors swirling into something
more
something big
and his smile
is the sun
that burns with brightness and warmth
and leaves you with stars in your eyes
he is endless
and he is space
and like space,
he takes your breath
away
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
He pointed to the 4'' by 7'' framework
with two teenage girls faces pressed
against hers, an overbearing smile in the background
of a boy caught in the mist of poor lighting
and ****** drunken photography.
She told him about the field
laid green and black blades wet
from central PA rain and smashed,
meshed clumps of mud sticking to the rubber mazes
on the undersides of old work boots.
How the fire billowed over hazy introductions
and pressured joy of seeing someone no one
really ever wanted to see again.
She told him about the drive with two girls,
how many stops
it took to reach the county party
and how many times she counted the circles
on her thumbs before she was distracted
by another person wanting a picture or another beg
for a beer.
She laughed as she reflected, glancing up at the photo
then back at him as his hand
lay between the crease of her *** and thigh.
He was from Durham and didn't get it.
But she painted it so vividly with her tongue
as it danced over the summer memory
that he felt he could be there
if he let himself.
She unwound for him like a yo-yo
to which only he could pull her back up again.
Unaware that she mindlessly
let him control all the strings.
As she talked, jumping from picture to picture,
he noticed her leap frog
from each. She skipped three or four in the middle,
and even thought it seemed
as if she could open with the press of the right button
there were still some things she wouldn't let him
really see.
She held her breath when the story turned bad.
He saw her eyes balance on the phrase,
he now noticed, she carefully chose next.
She was no outburst. This was no plea.
She had a plan and undoubtedly knew
all that she wanted him to know.
As she flipped to the next page
he counted the seconds between the pauses
and moved his hand to her shoulderblade.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
I have secrets. Not really. The
thing about secrets: everyone has them.
It doesn't matter how close you
feel to someone. If you know
someone, you keep secrets from them.
To avoid keeping secrets from someone
is to speak your every thought
and conceal no transient stirring of
opinion. And who can boast that
they have never held their thoughts
in check for the sparing of
an unwilling or unwitting ear? Indeed
I have no secrets from others,
simply sides I have not shown
them. And no one can be
my closest confidant, for there are
questions I have never been asked.
So when you feel I am
keeping something from you do not
assume it is my malicious vouchsafe
that I guard from the daylight.
The things I tell others are
as readily apparent in me as
the steps I take, the things
I have not divulged merely the
undersides of my feet, not displayed
but ever present.
But there are things I have
not divulged within me that have
been scrutinized and been subjected to
taboo. These for want of a
better word, we can call secrets.
They are small motes of golden
truth which swim in my bones
and glitter in flames of indignation.
And they are alive for they
move throughout my entire being and
use quick teeth to try to
rend me open. They thirst, these
infinitesimal planets, for the sun which
casts light on everything and bears
nothing in more genial light than
its neighbor. I rather suspect they
would appreciate that equanimity.
However were I to free them,
to cast asunder their parasitic bonds,
I would be cast from my
comfort and tormented, guilty as a
twin shamed for his brother's faults.
So what am I to do?
These glazed traits, my inner selves,
have teeth so I feed them;
I feed them with knowledge and
the comfort that they are not
unique, for others are feasted upon
by the unknowable and un-"what"-able demons
that lie in wait in their
bodies; I feed them with promises,
so infantile yet that they cannot
be tested for emptiness, of an
eventual release and the opportunity to
cast loose the bonds of disgust
with which my peers lasso them.
And they grow larger. They are
engorged with hope. Still when the
beast grows larger, larger grows its
bite.
And when I am at a
loss to placate my secret in-dwellers
with hope, they gnaw. And the
bites which at one point might
have been an irksome scrabbling at
my heart now cave in my
resolve and threaten my breathing with
an erstwhile unspent vigor.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 1:46 PM UTC
In my room
24/7 24 hours 7 days now
A week since you left it feels
Longer than it is some weeks are days some
Weeks are hours some
Weeks are milliseconds but this
This week is forever
I never saw the transition from workaholic into depression like
A literal depression, an indent I
Cave in myself I
Cave in on myself I
Go to counseling, admit it happened it should feel like lancing a boil but
It doesn't it feels like rearranging a sweater around a rock in my chest so
It rubs against the splintery undersides of my ribs irritating inevitable
Months spent in my bed i don't go to class i don't do work i sleep
Sleep everything away sleep everything away
My uncle asks me if i've been eating i'm paler than usual and no
No I haven't been eating how can you eat when there's a
Boulder shoving your lungs into your spine, and your intestines into your pelvis
I try and feel like throwing up I
Lose weight but don't feel any more worthwhile I've been
Caving in on myself, caving in on myself, caving in on myself
In the ruins
Furious
I still live
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
If you sit alone in opaque rooms
and wait for a few good lines to inject themselves
into your brain as if they dripped from a syringe
then its time to try something else. Poetry is like
a gigantic exotic insect that shouldn't be squashed with the
***** undersides of rubber boots but captured
by meddlesome mesh nets and elbow grease,
put in display glass cases where the wild things
are and frequently washed clean of the stale,
insipid grime of life. And after enough love
it will entrap itself in the great transmutable cocoon of time
and break free. Poetry is in the bark of
old grandfather tree stumps out back behind
the barn, each circular line revealing
multitudes of cacophony and pain,
yet you wouldn't have known the taste
of the ligatures of wood without
first running your tongue along
the metallic axe that hued them. Poetry
hesitates for those who stare with naked eyes at the
cold quilt of patched grey clouds looking for symbols, choosing
to instead reveal itself to the telescopic lenses
of admirers of orbital spheres.
Whereas sometimes the cracking Sphinx confuses even the
pristine muses and the sound
of thunder at night makes the dog
cry so does the effervescent poetic
smiling of the moon inflict pain
onto the hearts of the lonely, yet they
still dare to look. Poetry isn't a noun
but a verb. It is the act of jumping
into leaves, of stepping off the precipice
of normalcy, of falling ever deeper
into the dark abyss below.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 11:47 PM UTC
Heavy gray clouds battle for control of the supple trees,
which bend under the will of the wind,
leaves whipping and flickering their bright undersides,
like the dresses of frantic Spanish dancers;
pale pulp squishes between her toes,
the grapes bursting under the weight of
eighteen-year-old feet - both the fruit
and the flesh are soft and ripe
and smell of sugar in the sun;
the gray sea licks wildly at the gravelly shore,
while her fire-red locks twist and tangle in the wind.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC
it is not the shadows
we survive in,
nor the undersides of
rocks,
neither is it the shade
of trees
or
the nether-regions
of the mind
no
it is only in
the cool of
night,
when all can see
if they look hard
enough
that is when we dance,
that is when are,
that is when…
…we are the night-walkers,
beings of grace.
we, the things so ugly,
we, the creatures so horrendous,
we, the nightmares and the
dreams all at once.
we walk out on ten legs
or two,
marching in no particular
pattern at all
yet in such coordination
that the armies of the
world salute in shame
our meaning is nothing
our existence, in and of
itself, is astounding
enough
we do not need to scream
from the roof tops to get
the message across
we are the night-walkers,
dancers of the moon,
we have no grace or charming
traits,
yet you fear us,
but we
don’t fear
you
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 6:31 PM UTC
The colours swing in a pendulum attached to the mind
as if
each shade knows its final resting place
in a landscape packed with the purity of clarity.
All of the brushes have been tenderly placed
in a potholder soaking
up the sensations of previous lifetimes
now slowly turning to ageing grey shades
of temperament
To touch the sunflower grey would be a sin
against the sun it glints off the minds magical array
but green beckons in an eversoft seduction
with silver on the undersides to offshoot
the tantrums of the painters reflection.
The scene emerges from a warm blanket of texture
into a tone so gentle that it seems to whisper its presence
in a vase of rounded personality.
I watch
as she loses herself in every stroke of deftness
stepping out into the limelight
taking a bow before an audience of murmurs
soon retreating into that world
that has captured her for today.
She will return when she is ready.
to live amongst us again.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
The luminous grey undersides of clouds
Travelling a charcoal sky, speak my thoughts aloud
As thunder
Reflections of my mind's wandering eye
Sep 17, 2020
Sep 17, 2020 at 11:55 AM UTC
Crawdads have a crazy *** life. There's not
much to courtship and no real copulation. Boring
as this may sound, it's somewhat engrossing
for me. Likely more than any lady crawdad ever
thought of it. I would think most women might
agree. Sadly, reminiscent of **** really. Males
act like ruffians, catching females like prey,
turning them over, and leaving a sticky deposit
on their undersides. Worm like sperms adhere
to her, which she carries with her until she lays
eggs. I've seen this while preparing étouffée.
Not the *** act, just the worms.
Life is a multiplex of convoluted situations.
"Please yes, oh no!" What's going on in those
crusty little heads? It seems such a foreign
lifeform. Still, eerily familiar to what I've found
at the bathhouse. I think I'll fatten up my tail,
wear some antennae and pincers this Halloween.
Mmmm... Étouffée.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 2:05 PM UTC
I am rolling hills with vibrant tulips as far as the eye can see,
I am savannah with boundless sunshine, flora and fauna wild and carefree
I am thick forest with trees who stand tall and strong and extend their arms to the sky,
I am luscious jungle untamed and heavy and saturated with blossoms and vines.
I am gorgeous in every part of me, regardless of the sharpened gazes
pointed towards me like spears.
I am powerful in every part of me because I dare to be me,
sharpening my own spears in self defense.
My jungle is the strongest part of me,
A landscape of coarse trunks along the curves of my legs,
A tangled mass of vines on the undersides of my arms,
An unruly bush to accompany trunks at the place where they meet.
I rule my jungle in confidence and wield my own spears
To let the savages know that I am unafraid and comfortable
whether my jungle is tamed or left uncut.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 1:05 AM UTC
Dusk, mosquitoes, lilac and thunderheads
Step down from the sky balanced on breeze and the undersides of leaves,
The river is choppy and rushed, shouldering past the piers of the bridge
The night is about to swallow itself whole.
Bald heads rock steady on screened-in porches
Lick their lips in hungry anticipation
The first streak of light and piercing crack
Shatters the horizon
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC