I am here. This is no small feat. I have worked to get here. I have scratched the backs. I have tricked my mind, twisted the words, made a fool of myself repeatedly. I have even felt like a slave to my own ambition. To have escaped here I have carefully lost my way again… Continue reading Here – a poem. No, the title is “Here”. But yeah, here’s a poem.
Tag: poetry
Foreign Shores Again
...before that troubled imprint, a land apart, and isles of parts, of shagged bark and burred wind...
Beyond the Dual
THE THIRD THING There’s Fact, there’s fiction, and there is the third thing Manifesting in real time. Dreams. Confusing the black with the white. There’s right, there’s wrong, and then--the gray area Doubling down on a choice. Walking a tightrope, feeling the way. There’s good, there’s evil, there’s lost, there’s found, but then there’s… Continue reading Beyond the Dual
ocd vestibule
Behind the entry bench, the van gogh blue umbrella wedged at a 35 degree angle hadn't been wrap-snapped first. This would bother me, were it not wet and needing to freely drip on the hardwood floor by the baseboards. This would bother me, but for the carelessly lain pink scarf inadvertantly pooling, sopping beyond its mohair fringe. This would… Continue reading ocd vestibule
Gilded Exploits
The creation and the embodiment of energy, what they’ve invested in, valued, now mingling impossibly here...
Vigil
Straddling two worlds before a big move...
Integrated Tears
What is it like to be both the healer, and the one in pain? I'll bet you know.
I met myself
I was older than I remember...
Not Yet Tasted
To My Love/Yet to Be Tasted This street—ours—gray, blockaded with scaffold, It is our street today. Out the close bistro window white candle, pewter stand, sandy joug of water Edinburgh—ours to visit and to possess concurrent Life and candle together Juliet balcony and chimney pot International needs, wants, clashing Crashing as waves against seagull trying… Continue reading Not Yet Tasted
No More a Love Sonnet
What shall I say of love? That it dies a thousand ways? That, like the orange sun, we all know it sets each day-- Yet we would strap it to scaffolding to keep it hung? Love is a word for only one emotion, (and that right glaring) which cannot be trapped--To love love you look… Continue reading No More a Love Sonnet
