Tag: Poetry

slow bass cycles, to and fro paino, windy thumps, rustling leaves slow and soft, tapping raindrops rap upon the skylight “take notice of me” insists the withering storm echoes of afternoon tantrum clouds now quiet, gone to bed...

Dull roots return —so much for low maintenance— but low maintenance is for low moods giving up not bothering I should delight in high maintenance —and finding shortcuts– for high rewards or at least the satisfaction of not giving up refusal to bow down to my dull roots both...

on the cut (or I should be): the excess of years needing to melt away let my true form emerge rising like daffodils through the dirt pushing new buds to shine in the sun and discard the rest like last year’s compost feeds the flower and vanishes into the...

Flicker on, far horizon Candle? (pitchforked) Torch? Tunnel’s end? slide towards or hide waiting for more glow more info Sensations: tingling, warm fuzz of possible hope and new dawn...

deep seated fatigue (not just the surface sleep loss or tiredness from efforts) I am sick of how I’ve been living shirking work scorning music and not the flood comes and sweeps me with it all form a little fissure of willingness I must learn to surf and swim...

strappy polka dot stilettos the better to walk all over with no time for argument hateful glares from old hags —no matter the age— in their ugly dirty sneakers and clumsy orthopedic shoes wistful glances from husbands remembering when their wives still wore heels still cared to turn them...

eyes dark and narrow as the slotted paths allowing entry to the thickets sacred groves of our shared ancestry as as full of mystery to me, a pagan amongst pagans how strange to hear your siren song now a lifetime on but then I never listened to the voices...

bubble bath foams up around my elbows I read but am thinking elsewhere putting on a bubbly façade to mask the stony front walls I keep up washed with cold sea froth as surely as the hot steam sweats the lies out of my head...

languid, slow to rise an imagined embrace drawing me back to dream —but not to build— new realities float by untethered by action needing building blocks of concrete —not desire— braced against the winds of whim...

An Tíogar stretches his neck chin up to the sun longing to be scratched behind the ears never enough will I ever ride that tiger? Yes, though perhaps not in this world but in dreams big paws pushing the top of my head I laugh and he roars stretches...