I was quite young, maybe third grade, when I discovered Poe on the family bookshelf in a bound compendium of his work. While my love for his stories took a bit of time to grow (they were a bit a slow burn for me), I was immediately taken with his poetry. Still today, the casual rhyme,…
Tag: poems
#Otherworldly Words: Transilience
February is the month that benefits from a leap year, thus having 29 days this year. A Leap Year is the year we gather the fragments of the 1/4 day in our calendar and give them space. It is a way of collecting time as if over the course these fragments were lost. Three…
#Otherworldly Words: Tachyon
February is the month that benefits from a leap year, thus having 29 days this year. A Leap Year is the year we gather the fragments of the 1/4 day in our calendar and give them space. It is a way of collecting time as if over the course these fragments were lost. Time itself…
From the #QuoteGarden: November
November is a month I am, well, let’s say that I’m hard on November. It’s one of those in between months that can’t quite decide what season it is. It swirls with chill and drizzle. Some mornings awake brilliant with frost while others are simply dingy. November colludes with its brother month, March, to make days short…
Behind the hedgerow
For #WerewolfWednesday, we’re treated a full moon, a lunar eclipse, and a meteor shower. Oh, and this werewolf poem! What lurks behind the hedgerow? Crackling branches under feet As I sit upon the stone bench in the silver glow of the full moon, where my lover I did come to meet. Whose labored breaths…
leaves of memory
if I could kiss my memories and toss them to the wind as crumbled leaves, my outstretched limbs would yearn so desperately as to sprout new memories as spring. the desperate red, the shameful purple, the quivering orange cling to me against the cold. this autumn coat of my life—not always beautiful but nonetheless…
chimera
broken and stitched from many separate, now dead, pieces. the grotesquery you’ve made of me. we often imagine much worse than reality. yet not in this instance. the stiches rub raw and red and infected yet hold. oozing between branches, sunlight mottles the damp soil and leaves. where we lie. we talk of movies….
memorial
a small fire burns within the cavity I once called my heart. the shadows cast by the flames — a memorial — each a sweet remembrance, a lost hope, a faded dream, dancing on the cave walls like figures in jubilation.
at this point
my regrets pierce the heavens like stars my dreams litter the landscape, sparkling shattered glass in the beating sun. each day the vultures of hope peck my bleached bones clean — at this point, life has failed expectation. yet for the gift of fire I would burn…
Parting Glances
What is a first glance? A way of saying goodbye. and a threshold enters as much as it leaves. contains as much as it rejects. we work at parting glances, splitting the differences of space and air, a carnival of words, exchanged for fleeting glimpses of a stranger and a desired kiss. caressing fingers that…
