the sun, broken down into particles and rays sparkling through the morning dew on my windshield before I slip into another work day
Tag: poetry
Where We Rent
We must hate our parents And ourselves We Americans, driven To erase all trace of our, and their, progress On the landscape. Each site, landmark, seen As a blank canvas. What is this need? Is each strike of the wrecking ball an expression of relief or regret? Failure or success? Our hubris…
Intersection of Fiction and Poetry
Fiction and poetry are often treated as different types of writing—and they are. I think, however, that the most beautiful writing happens when the two intersect. Poetic passages within fiction that paint an emotive, vivid picture transport our minds and souls. Poetry that tells us a story as well as affects us can teach us…
White Dwarf
A meteor shower lights up the sky behind you, creating a halo, shadowing your face as you begin to speak. Watching the sky explode and die, dusts of stars and comets, traces of the galaxy they shared. Endless, to a point. The death of a sun as it erupts, shining brighter and burning away the…
Seven
Hit with a scent memory, cascading whiffs of cigarette smoke mingling with Dove soap. Suddenly taken back, back to early childhood. To Maw Maw’s house. Age seven. And it’s a real memory. Seen through my eyes as I saw it then. It’s not a memory reconstructed, where you see yourself as well as what you…
Werekitty
stalking her prey a weaponless paw emerges from beneath the dust ruffle to berate a passing foot with puff-ball assault when the initial attack is unsatisfactory, the whole beast lunges to spin a mad ballet around the leg of her owner a bite to his Achilles’ heel yields satisfactory results: a kick sends her screaming…
Ring In
Is it joy or hope or self-destruction fueling a mad-dash end and raucous beginning? New chances and dreams littered among old wreckage of who we were and are. Mourning helps you see through empty traditions and false expectations. Ring in! Ring in! Ring in! Was I the only one with my fingers crossed on the…
when frost comes early to a widow’s garden
worrying about her roses the old woman glanced through window panes. she wrung her hands, wrought with frantic agitation. such beautiful blooms took time and tender care. she stood feebly upon her frail legs, twisted like dogwood. hobbling, wheezing, she trudged across her floor like swamp moss….
A study of Medea as a subordinate female character
memories of youth, she leans on, a cane that hobbles and holds. A faded photo, yellowed, her face puckers in whispers repeated into creases around her lips. this strange land she now calls home, loveless, childless. counting the treasures of her life. broken vows and unkept promises litter her bed. her mind had raged but…
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