trending
lasted longer
than expected
at least it wasn’t
wasted
was a good run
while it lasted
still he tastes it
A single, patient line, as you’d expect from her,
She lets the fern be a gesture, a wearable thing.
Here, the fern is both feminine and unconscious—
a sleep-dancer, already mythic.
It grows where names forget themselves,
where leaf-light slants through time like old glass.
No bloom, no boast. Only fractal unfurling—
a logic older than bees.
Victorians made reliquaries,
pressing silence between sheets of leaded air.
And still it curls,
still listens,
still does not answer
the bell of our days.
What hour is it in the understory?
What calendar keeps a dream in green?
hope
a fervent whispering plea as if a wish alone could set us free
it’s taken me ages decades to see
it is trust with feet forward
that let’s hope rest at the heart
tucked into a corner settled where it’s meant to reside
in the chest long worn and scarred
yet sturdy and capable of holding
this grand human shroud
I use a lot of religious references in this piece. If that is something that creates discomfort within you then this piece is not for you. -Thank you
it started with Emily–
“I think to Live—may be a Bliss”–
her words opening my mind
like a safecracker twisting the handle,
pulling the door,
revealing the treasures inside
now, it’s an every day thing–
especially in June–
clicking on names,
people-poems,
opening my mind
to receive transmission
signal strong. no decay.
over the years of viewing
poets and poems,
i have become convinced
of one truth:
the inner voice
is best left partially hidden,
elsewise, it may
burn through
the crust of the Earth,
spitting the rock
into shards of
may-have-beens.
The mother in summer wears shades
as if to say she has done this before,
Wears her human skin and paints her toenails
as if to say she goes here and in another life,
she might be fun, or something like it.
They go to the park, the pool, and it’s a little indecent,
she thinks privately, all this flesh,
but it’s nothing that wasn’t there before – just the crowd
in different phases of exposure.
She has heard that some feel this way in winter,
disappearing into darkness as she comes alive,
different broods of cicadas occasionally overlapping,
vibrating and screaming in turn.
Success is measured with the shoe pile
Stacked high as their heels, in the corner.
A girl’s plumage, fangs, and armor
Cast aside.
Bait the trap with the rhythm
Familiar, swaying, upbeat.
Defenses lowered, shoes kick off
To pile in the corner.
Watch it rise with the noise in the room
The bass of the rhythm
The stomping of feet
Joy caught in the moment.
in the 80s
we used to walk past straight couples
holding hands & kissing on the street
& I would be raging inside
that we weren’t allowed to do the same
we could do it now I guess
in the big cities at least
without fear of being called faggots
or beaten to death with baseball bats
if we were still together
On cold winter nights in Appalachia
the featherbed helped keep me warm
covered in quilts handmade by Gran
her work of art in true mountain form.
When warmth from the fire had gone
and the cookstove cinders burned out
cold from outside entered the house
as the wintertime wind moved about.
Because of Gran’s handcrafted quilts
and the softness of a goose feather bed
on winter nights I’d always stay warm
with love in each patch by hand and thread.
