gray clouds mist on monday morning commuters crawling on gray roadways. A new work week holds no promise, only repetition. Each day festers into the next. I wrote this draft this morning as part of National Poetry Writing Month. I hope to collect these works for a mixed writing media piece I am working on…
Category: Serial Addiction — Your Weekly Read
sunday
the thorns of a new week crown through the pink clouds in sulfur-yellow shards of sun. each passing day, week, I fight to make this stumbling more than the sorrow of missing you, less than the joy of counting the days until we are reunited. Time is a two-faced lover: easing and stealing. Yet I…
The Runes (a sneak peek at my next novel)
Prologue It was like a bur—the kind you get stuck to your clothing crossing a late summer field or side-of-the-road ditch—only, it was stuck to her insides. She could feel it there, burrowing in, deeper each moment, contaminating her blood, feeding on her. Ilene pressed her hands to her stomach until her exposed flesh turned…
revelation
And you said, You and I as a couple are as ironic as Mother Teresa with a photon gun. I said, “Oh, I know. You are so handsome, so witty and you really have your shit together.” I guess it wasn’t funny. A two year old letter read and reread countless times lies on the…
summer’s slow retreat
I that final summer we spent our nights on the pier, the moonlight bathing the water with its cool hands. night sounds, frogs humming and burping, crickets, and water slapping rocks serenading us. long hours lost in eternal embrace, caresses without end, daylight hours, too, passed in hide-and-seek cornfields. ski trips and trains marked our…
Life Imitating Art
I push in the tape and I lie on the bed alone, eroded by a glacier of memories. I have chosen a love story, though I never would have when we were together. The movie begins, a technicolor dream, figures arise before me, you and I. A passionate kiss lingers between lovers. So soon torn apart…
boyfriend
your eyes are a pale-green altar. a torture device of worship, love. I hide my face when I look at you and see my own inadequacies, complicities to the war-torn vestige of our former years. Poisonous memories choke my throat and I cry tears, a sacrifice.
The unhung door
so much undone, so much on the list the unhung door, the unglazed window the wheelbarrow filled with rain that taunt purposeless, mocking
A Day with a Universal God
Listen for my voice in the crashing waves, And in the call of the wild wind, You can hear it there, too. I am the monk locked in silent solitude, I am the crying infant. Listen for my voice in your favorite melody, in a child’s rhyme. My voice is as endless as the seas….
Consciousness of a Flat Planet
She wants to float above him, beyond his reach. As he splits the water with his sleek form, the specter of his voice echoes around her. Washed by his waves, she lulls her head toward the stars. Obscured by a canopy of gray mist, the stars dance a…
ADRIANLILLY.COM 