Posts
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My Death Bed
I fear that after I have clocked out my last time
and rest my sunken eyes and watch the colors fade;
that it is not Gabriel greeting me at heavens golden gates;
but the frost that devours my soul and chains my body down -
His Death Bed
If you swore to me as you swore to God
that you would never die; and you would live
until the earth shattered and bestowed seven
millennia of bad luck unto the next civilization; -
Ode to a Woman
It’s hard to identify what makes her different from the rest.
It could be the delightful warmth of her skin
mixed with the vanilla scent that gently stains her raiment.
Built like the clouds painted by Monet; -
Where I Find Peace
In my catacombs of tragedies and comedies alike,
my preference is the nook in the section from when I was innocent.
As I’ve aged and matured the number of books has gradually -
Memory to canvas
I wonder if that’s how Picasso really saw himself.
Deconstructed shapes and primary colors,
All meticulously placed in their seemingly correct
Spaces on that subliminal canvas.
I wonder if when he looked in the mirror, -
Ode to the Wind
When I awake for the second time
the window tremors at the slightest
touch of the wind. I notice it never falters
despite moving along each season.
It hoists piles of leaves in suburban yards
Loves
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Before the World Even Existed
She imagines the universe,
the world suspended in midair.
Before, nothing except possibility even existed.
The Milky Way, Earth, evolution–shimmer and dematerialize.
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Birdwatching
meet me in the dream where the windows open onto bird flight
with sparrows flitting shadows across the room,
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The power of the feminine
I believe that femininity is power. I was born a girl, and even though I know now that I am more fluid than the word “girl” can contain, I am still feminine. I am feminine because I choose to be.
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God
As children we are taught God was the big man in the sky
He who watches over, tall and overbearing
Thorns stapled to his head and bleeding, he was resurrected for us
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November death
It’s stick season
again.
The leaves have passed and gone.
Spirits ran rampant through our world for one night.
It’s not yet the Feast
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she is maiden, mother, crone
Wind whispers through the air,
snatching at the girl,
sitting in the dark
her face shining though,
in the moonlight.She is anything but what she appears