Posts
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A Funeral
Last Thursday, a man waved white,
but the grass was painted with war.
Everything he kept inside his ship
had tipped over into the red sea.
Today, the orchard ceiling of the church -
In All Things Wonderful
Look around you at the blooming body of our mother.
Look at the sky and at the birds gliding in her breath.
Look at the river cascade while politely trafficking the fish. -
Sober for July
Tonight, I am present with my red cup
filled with water. In the woods my friends
dance above the shooting fireworks.
When colors hit the sky I cringe rather
than look up with my mouth agape in awe. -
Ode to my Hair
Thick-skinned and unruly, oh, you are the epitome of a daughter.
Break down your well-crafted follicle walls and let me nest
on the head built from the chemicals of Westerner's breath. -
Upon a Bushel of Wild Berries
Upon a bushel of wild berries
you claim this small clearing;
and you lay aside your old wearies.
As you eat the Earth's offering,
you mumble softly with yearning,
"Thank you for the gift of summer.” -
A Heavy Breath
June breathes its dry heat into your mouth.
You are filled with the lungs of summer;
and to your lips you press April nicotine,
wondering where March is now.
The nightstand has a penny’s worth of dust.
Loves
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Unbecoming
The streets have teeth and we hold our fingers with enough space for the others and drink cider on a corner where the ceiling above us blinks blue-blue-blue onto her tonsil-pink dress and someday I hope I never have to see it in a suitca
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january to july
in the months of darkness and cold, i never stopped writing.
i just kept it all to myself. every night, my own religion
pages of pen poised on paper, pouring my heart out
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Acceptance before Change
On September 2 of 2022, I packed three short sleeve shirts, two long sleeve shirts, and four pairs of pants into a backpack and left my house in Sharon, VT, for four months on an intensive expedition semester school: Kroka Expeditions’ L
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A Trapped Poet (inspired by Emily Dickinson)
I am just like her—
Trapped in a sea of white.
My mind is just as frayed—
My heart just as sliced.
By the glittering blades
That contrived all her words.
The letters of her thoughts,
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My lovely ex
I walk through the graveyard, carefully avoiding the flowers on the graves. It’s a yearly trip to keep up appearances. I hated coming here. I sigh stopping at the grave marked William Piller.
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Don‘t you wonder how they all were you?
See, the sea is crawling, over these mountain tips far west
and when I go away, to it
I see fiddling with my old hat
playing with the worn out shoes
with all the past faces, lying spread out on the ground