Chenilled sundew tentacles sweep
Beauty’s dynamic echoes towards
peaceful kind smiles, resting
Graphed gazes on shoulders, eyes, lips
Hazy apostrophes slide, slip
Afield from laughter, pause
To think, feel, listen, kiss again
Envisioning elegant love
Before and after, now
Sparkling lily dust brews such sweet
Music, a dancing diving fall
Remembered only, then
♡Anastasia Z. Cunningham
06-29-2020
For the girls who talk so much
It happens in their sleep
Beds slapped together like smacking lips
Too large as they hang over the side
Of their shared box spring
Shared bathroom shared clothing
Mine exchanged for Ours
As you slide into my shoes
& jet out the door, late for class
Lights flickering on and off to the beat
Of keys clicking Sims and pages turning
It was college and we were young
Still are young
Just losing our glow
Adding coal to the fire
& rushing before goes out
Our decisions still rash
Laughter still loud
Nights still long
Tempers still short
I hope we’re always the girls who wake
Impatient to make known
what was said in our dreams
our small town grows
but it feels like it’s shrinking
more and more everyday
tbe humidity was sweltering
the sweat sticking to our skin
and our hair falling carelessly
slushies in the night
with windows rolled down
cool air flowing in
heat lightning ignites the sky
dandelions blow in the wind
and we shake hands with midsummer
Love Poem
I lost a memory I had of you
as though it were an old password
to my heart.
I would start to write it
and stumble over the word,
the special character, the capitals.
It is easier to write daffodils,
poppies, Black Eyed Susan,
tulips, your lips, moist,
than it is to write the password
to feelings or that memory
of how much love
there was and above
all how much pain
there was
when you left
us.
I walk outside,
having a mind to write
a poem, but I feel rain
upon my skin.
The password
to your memory
was simply
rain.
Roughly translates to revenge bedtime procrastination where the lack of control in one’s life leads to a refusal to sleep a futile attempt to reclaim some semblance of autonomy in the daily landslide of confusion I remember as a child the dark rings under my eyes twin crescents eclipsing stability of mind a signal that the body needs to slumber to recover am I a lunatic moon crazed hungry for rehabilitation from what they called insomnia we experimented with medication for years to alleviate but still haven’t cured back then I’d abstain for days daydreamed of perpetual waking even tried it only to fall comatose while skateboarding brought to consciousness by colliding with concrete even now my nights are plagued with spectres shadowy retellings of a life gone awry I’m haunted by echoes of warped loved ones disappointed in the directionless meandering I call life don’t worry I feel the same adrift in a haze where the horizon is painted in the same fog of confusion I wake to trying to stave off hearing those pained tones ever again by spending the last few hours of every evening searching for something to find meaning in to atone for sins that never were.
what does this say, who
am I, who I want to be,
what my heart wants to sing?
The dandelions get walked on
While people are on their way
To take pictures with the sunflowers
Dandelions get called weeds, and are cut down
But dandelions grant our biggest wishes
They give us hope and make us smile
Sunflowers are bright yellow and bring us happiness as well
But as soon as the season changes, they fall down
I look at the people around me
And wonder
Are they dandelions or sunflowers?
the one I folded out of a five-year-
old piece of computer paper, crafted
mostly during a Sunday morning Zoom
workshop, the very first I’ve ever made.
I filled it with affirmations, encouragements
for personal reflection: Working on yourself
is a radical act. Your growth is a precious
process. You are beautiful, valuable, valued.
Inside were roses, daisies, sunflowers, snapdragons
drawn with pens, markers, highlighters in pastel
purple, electric blue raspberry, accountant’s
eyeshade green, the whole of it titled bloom.
When I showed him the booklet, he swiveled
in his chair, away from dual screens to read, flip it
over, smile up at and thank me before setting it
on his desk, assigning it to prominent display.
I’d say I didn’t have the heart to tell him he
was not the intended recipient, but I realize
now that’s not even half true — that man
also deserves, has every right to bloom.
