Monthly Archives: July 2018

Such Depths

And in such depths,
where Leviathan
unseen swims
in monstrous
seeking solace,
I am at the mercy
of the currents,
which take me
farther out,
without oars,
or sail, or rudder,
until the thought of
stepping foot aground
again is all!
but forgotten,
and lost to memory now,
as Leviathan
skims the surface,
circling,
round and round,
when reaching out
to touch the scales,
I find, how they quiver!
at last to feel,
what darkness has never felt.

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Hooked

I had wanted to forget,
to bury my
head in the sand,
to walk away,
when I tried to pass you,
to slip by hoping
you wouldn’t notice,
hoping
you wouldn’t catch me
as I slid by
in your peripherals,
but somehow you did,
your hand sliding
like a hook through the bend
at my elbow
and pulled me in
to your embrace,
in to your kiss,
in how badly I had
hoped to leave, to escape you,
but never did.

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Of Beauty

Make sense of beauty,
unwrap it, if you can,
explain the meaning,
tell me all the why’s
and tell me
all the necessary’s;
why beauty is needed,
and where it begins
in all things,
and where it trails off
in ending.
Tell me, if you can.
Make sense of beauty.

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Authors Unknown

To die on the page,
forgotten and unremembered
except for the letters,
except for the words
left nameless, unread,
and underappreciated
epitaphs to the living,
with words that string
feeling into how many sounds
one can write in rhythm
they say, might give reason
for all the ink they’ve bled.

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A Thread and Needle

There are small aches,

pains, a skipped beat,

here or there, a fissure,

a crack, I was once

aware of, widening now

as I frantically look 

for staples, tape or glue,

and then I remember!

As I rummage through 

a drawer for my thimble, 

a “thread and a needle,

that’ll hold it together,”

and as I make the

first stitch and then another,

I’ll have to wait for it to heal.

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A Hot Knife

The whole world
feels as though
it wells up in ways
I am uncertain
where or how it begins
or ends, or even,
if there is an ending,
where words spread
like butter with a hot
knife across
a piece of hot bread
you offer,
but I am not hungry,
and no longer want
to eat, with too
many words already
swallowed, digested,
and now sick
and unable to think,
where I question
if any of them
were ever for me,
or just an exercise in writing.

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Through The Ceiling

When I start to feel
as though the weight
of all things
has formed a crack,
as though
the floor is about to
give way at last,
then I’ll take
the tip of my toe
and test it, to see
if it will hold,
or if I can break it,
and if it appears I can,
will jump so fast!
into whatever this is
that calls me.

 

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An Orchard

With your hand
might you reach
to pluck
from me
and take
what is a given?
A gift!
Which has grown
on long
and spindly limbs
and kept itself
from spoiling,
so at once is grasped,
is eaten!
To yield in us,
an orchard.

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At Corners

Does he notice? how beautiful the shoulders, sun-kissed, barren and browned in the heat of Summer bearing, as they must, always, the weight of the body, while waiting to tell another’s story, as straps so purposely give, then slide and fall at their own fruition, here and now, at how delectable the flesh is at corners, with trailing hands and kisses meant to destroy, then resurrect what the body was always meant for; here, in this turn and curve into another.  

 

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In His Heart

My hand has developed a slight tremble now,
in an attempt to hold my pen
to see, if there is any ink left to give,
but I have given so much already, so many
under-appreciated words I undressed before him,
undoing eye hooks and buttons, zippers
and laces from bodices, that when every word
dropped, he watched deadpan, while they fell
in a slow float to the floor, and I asked him
if he could hear the weight of it, but he said
he could not, and so I asked him,
“can you feel the sound of it in your heart?”

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Forge

There are so many words
to give so many reasons,
that how could one know
for sure? In what direction,
the words, they all were
going, like a river must run
its own course.

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Lesson Plan

He wants me to sign up
for one of his “private” workshops,
and, “hmm… tempting,”
as I try to imagine all that
might entail, and where
exactly would class ensue,
and what exactly would this
lesson plan look like, and
what might I be required to do
to pass the grade, Darling?
Hah! And you make a statement
like that, and what do you
expect my mind’s gonna do?
Because you still don’t get it,
or understand why, or say
how you’re still… so, so confused.
Yeah, me too.

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