Posts for June 8, 2016

Bronson O'Quinn


UPDATE feelings
       SET (
       VALUES (
             “still in love, so very, very much”,
             “but you do the dishes”


so close

Although it may start quite benign,
with an order of words right to rhyme
bring in violation
to change expectation
and laughter’s repayment in a currency that is not valid legal tender but makes us feel better about the inevitable heat death of the universe. 


Love is…

learning to let
your walls down
– Jessica Swafford 


No Words

There were no words in me tonight.
So I laid myself next to the earth
and let the slow respiration of the grass,
the grating rasp of the crickets,
and the discordant notes of the crows
fill me instead.

**Plus, I didn’t see the prompt. ^_^


Such Things Remain

Our cat stands on the bed, front paws firmly planted on the headboard. Unmoving, slitted eyes are fixed on the rose of Sharon tree swaying the thickness of a screen away. Sparrows hold a raucous meeting on the branches, their numbers ebbing and flowing with the topic. Instinct urges her to be part of the agenda. Instead of growls or whimpers, she vocalizes rolling, chirping syllables of desire. The tableau calls to mind a man widowed through a quarter of his life, quietly affixed to a park bench near the day’s end, missing the company of a woman. 



red winged blackbird descends
raucously ‘bove my head
reels of twittering pass
reaching to morning light.
raising my foreign words
replete with a smiling,
round face… i walk away.



There was a young lady named Sis.
Travelling the world was her bliss.
In Scotland she rode horses
then rode Mongolian courses.
Steeds in Kentucky she did not miss.

Amanda Corbin

What no one knows

It is a summer day
and my six year old
is on the floor
dragging a brush
across a canvas
while I sit at my desk
trying to conjure
some art of my own.
A gray border
frames a sky-blue background
where orange and purple
jump out from the center
in long, thick strokes.
What are you painting? I ask.
A witch, he replies.
To see what he’ll say
I ask, what’s a witch?
You know, like on Halloween
he says, his eyes on his work.
What do witches do?
Magic, he says
his focus unbroken,
the brush still moving.
Are witches real?
I don’t know. No one knows.
Then he looks up at me
and says, witches know, and smiles.  


I Dream I am a Sycamore after the Brock Turner Sentence

My sisters, all
orange-tape tied
with the pulse of chainsaws

distant, I think
but then

I feel the slice missing

between my own roots

feel my sap leaking
my sweetness slowly sucked
by the same gravity 
I once thought
connected me to Earth.




The slick glossy magazine

with picutres of exotic places–
white robed men in Morocco

bazaars in Istanbul
gondolas in Venice

appeared to my young eyes
as fairy tales beyond reach,

as out of place
in our unvarnished home

as fine china 
in a diner

I asked my Dad
why he subscribed

when these were places
we’d never go.

He said
for you.