POEMS 7 & 8
*Passion Project (Maggie D.)
(prior to my birth)
bought a large plot
They lived in a
meager trailer
from the ground up:
eight hundred trees,
Forest carved by
four weathered hands.
grew in, then birds,
squirrels, deer, frogs,
watered by their
sweat like ichor.
mom drove over
to their new house
finances, logged
on that dinky
enough money
to retire on.
*Spring Season (time lapse)
Spring air flows
through my windows,
cool on my skin.
I pat seeds down
through my windows,
cool on my skin.
I pat seeds down
in organic
soil in new pots...
My mom's digging
in piles of dirt,
ready to plant.
Birds perch and sing,
worms hide from them.
Baby birds scream.
Tulips bloom brightly,
I cut the stems
and place them, neat.
My mom's digging
in piles of dirt,
ready to plant.
Birds perch and sing,
worms hide from them.
Baby birds scream.
Tulips bloom brightly,
I cut the stems
and place them, neat.
Vases line the
kitchen cupboard,
pick one carefully.
Pickleball courts
fill up quickly--
summer's almost
here! I can’t wait!
Warm air on my
skin. Windows down
in the car, long
drives on warm nights.
How I love you
Poem 8
kitchen cupboard,
pick one carefully.
Pickleball courts
fill up quickly--
summer's almost
here! I can’t wait!
Warm air on my
skin. Windows down
in the car, long
drives on warm nights.
How I love you
Poem 8
Bad Dreams
All around are trees. Darkness fills the sky. The fog
makes it hard to see clearly through the branches. I can hear hooves running
towards me, crunching leaves underneath them. Several deer are chasing me.
Aren’t they supposed to be frightened of me, not the other way around? What do they
want from me? Screams come out of my mouth like I'm a baby robin warning its mother
it wants more worms. I feel sweat dripping down my face. Maybe this is a
dream or maybe I really am running from these deer. The alarm sounds. Was it a
dream?
*Rain Therapy Gracie
It’s raining outside.
It’s raining outside.
The sky begins
to darken.
I’ve been staring
at the walls
as if they are
Going to speak
to me. I’m feeling
deja-vu. I hear
Jeopardy on
in the living
room. All my days
Are becoming
one. My legs
move before my
Brain does. My thoughts
are on hold as
my body begins
To move.
The clock strikes
again, as if it
is laughing at
me. I’m looking
forward to tonight.
*Flower Garden
I’ve been staring
at the walls
as if they are
Going to speak
to me. I’m feeling
deja-vu. I hear
Jeopardy on
in the living
room. All my days
Are becoming
one. My legs
move before my
Brain does. My thoughts
are on hold as
my body begins
To move.
The clock strikes
again, as if it
is laughing at
me. I’m looking
forward to tonight.
I step into the garden as the light droops through the
petals like honey. I hear the wind blowing up against the
trees. Swaying like something in a nursery rhyme.
Bees are humming their lullabies, loud enough to make an elderly man
fall fast asleep. The roses are lined up in a single file, all placed
perfectly. I can see each of the beautiful blossoms. The grass is
soft on my bare feet. It feels like I’m walking on
clouds. I inhale: the air is crisp. I close my
eyes in order to capture these images. It is not a dream.
*1000 miles away Ezra McCabe
Thinking about the
Past, wondering:
Could I really leave?
Mom is gone, not
Dead, just far away.
Sister the same.
Okay. So I
Knew this was in
The works, so why
Do I feel such dread?
Birds screaming at
My window. I can't
Hear my own thoughts,
Each day the same
Could I really leave?
Dead, just far away.
Sister the same.
Knew this was in
The works, so why
Birds screaming at
My window. I can't
Each day the same
As the last, as
If missing what's
passed, an era
Gone, in which loss
passed, an era
Gone, in which loss
Allows you to
Renew. Repeating
In my brain box:
“You must lose the
old world to move
on to the next.”
*False Spring (Lilly)
A breeze on tape
Feels like nothing
I sit in peace
Almost silent
The fireplace is
Dead. Kind of like
A winter soul
Please find the sun
Before you freeze
Pale as snow skin
Shivering limbs
Reaching for warmth
It is only
February
I will survive
Nostalgia
For an old time
In a few months
You’ll feel it soon
Happiness--a
Little false hope?
It’s almost spring
But is it really?
No, here come
The ashes of dread
The empty bed
Back to the sea
*INVASION
It’s cold up here. The wind almost knocked me off my
feet. And how did I get here? My pajamas are torn and flowing in the wind,
my body frigid. There are no windows in my room. We don’t have a ladder either.
The grip of my feet is slipping. Yet I look down and I have no feet. Am I
floating? No. I can’t be. That’s not possible. Tiny droplets of water fall on my
hands, as my face starts to feel abnormal. Really, it’s my flesh melting as I
jolt awake to a stammering heart. Not my house.
*Trails of lilies (Yesier)
The streets laying
Circus man up
In the air loop
Fridge magnets out
Of power, falling
Like broken leaves
Lillies in red
Water on trail
To the ending
Where am I at,
Clouds on the rock
Swaying my fingers?
Left and right in-
Side the doorframe
I'll play the game
A dog runs its
Course to my storm
Until my heart
Is no longer
Beating to drums
Where is the trail
Of lilies that
Follow me to
My ending
Renew. Repeating
In my brain box:
old world to move
on to the next.”
*False Spring (Lilly)
Feels like nothing
I sit in peace
The fireplace is
Dead. Kind of like
Please find the sun
Before you freeze
Shivering limbs
Reaching for warmth
February
I will survive
For an old time
In a few months
Happiness--a
Little false hope?
But is it really?
No, here come
The empty bed
Back to the sea
The streets laying
Circus man up
In the air loop
Fridge magnets out
Of power, falling
Like broken leaves
Lillies in red
Water on trail
To the ending
Where am I at,
Clouds on the rock
Swaying my fingers?
Left and right in-
Side the doorframe
I'll play the game
A dog runs its
Course to my storm
Until my heart
Is no longer
Beating to drums
Where is the trail
Of lilies that
Follow me to
My ending
Minus the birds
Who roam the earth
Across the bubble?
Hallucinations
Coming from the house that fed you. Bloody hands feed your anger. An unrecognizable look in the eyes of you, where I once knew. Who is out to get you? Who is outside your window waiting to take you. I could see confusion hiding behind stability. The feeling of sorrow rains down as I watch you disintegrate. Knotted hair and scars on your face that I remember were clean. Who did such things to you? A scent comes off you like a skunk and a new amsterdam mated. I saw prickles on your skin from the sins you've committed.
Who roam the earth
Across the bubble?
Hallucinations
Coming from the house that fed you. Bloody hands feed your anger. An unrecognizable look in the eyes of you, where I once knew. Who is out to get you? Who is outside your window waiting to take you. I could see confusion hiding behind stability. The feeling of sorrow rains down as I watch you disintegrate. Knotted hair and scars on your face that I remember were clean. Who did such things to you? A scent comes off you like a skunk and a new amsterdam mated. I saw prickles on your skin from the sins you've committed.
*Helene (Spud)
Encase our world
Like a great big
It held the storm
That trapped the friends
That night we spent
Walking miles to
On the other
Side of our town.
Walls. The taste of
Amaretto
My drunken tongue.
The same one that
I try to say
Both of your names
I fear the wind
Whistling like a kettle
Brewing my hot tea
It’s freezing in here
I grab my blanket
Hanging from my bed
Rushing to the hallway
In the eerie silence
My stomach is growling
The tree falls over
Bushes invading the yard
Leaving me trapped here
I hear thumping, parents
Where are you?
The silence persists
The birds are hiding
In my attic, I hear
Outside, people I fear
Banging, demanding to come in
Do you want tea?
I don’t think so
My clothes are drenched
Jumping in a puddle
In my own home
*POWERLINES
*Existing
The light drips from
The faucet. Keeps
Me from closing
My eyes in the
Self-inflicted
Isolation. Outside,
Even the old rotted
Trees have birds and
Bugs keeping them
Company. I myself,
Chose to be alone,
But this never
Truly feels like
A choice I made
For myself. Just
Sitting and taking
Short quiet breaths
In my sad alone
Time. This moment will
Come again. Just
As familiar as it
Always is. The
Isolation will
Always welcome me.
Poem 8
So Loud
The faucet. Keeps
Me from closing
Self-inflicted
Isolation. Outside,
Trees have birds and
Bugs keeping them
Chose to be alone,
But this never
A choice I made
For myself. Just
Short quiet breaths
In my sad alone
Come again. Just
As familiar as it
Isolation will
Always welcome me.
So Loud
Mistakes feel like an earthquake tearing a city apart.
It’s never quiet in my head, no peace or quiet is allowed. My thoughts get so
confusing to where it feels like I am at war with an army of myself. The air
smells tangy and my chest feels heavy, like someone tied a few bricks to my
heart. All the little versions of me, going into panic trying to save the
sinking ship that is any size mistake that has been made, if any was even made
at all.
Luis
*Bzzzz
*Bzzzz
By the slow river
Mosquitos hum
Biting me as I walk.
I slap the air
Hoping to hit them
But I miss every time.
I stand on the trail
No shoes in sight
Jeans rolled up high.
I dip my toes in
As the sun sets
In the muddy water.
I think of home,
Small bedroom, the
Old rad-i-a-tor
Keeping me warm.
I get too close.
I graze my shin.
By this dark stream
I trace that scar,
And I stay still.
Poem 8
Mosquitos hum
Biting me as I walk.
Hoping to hit them
But I miss every time.
No shoes in sight
Jeans rolled up high.
As the sun sets
In the muddy water.
Small bedroom, the
Old rad-i-a-tor
Keeping me warm.
I get too close.
I graze my shin.
I trace that scar,
And I stay still.
*Jägermeister
Friday, June 13th. I woke up late; my mind was foggy.
Last night I went to the bar after work, and I drank until I couldn’t feel
anymore. Jager. An interesting choice of cheap herbal citrusy liquor with just
the right alcohol percentage to get the job done. I rush to work, feeling a burden to
all my coworkers. I feel like the world is against me. Everyone is communicating
their frustration with me, judging my suit for being as wrinkly as a crumbled
piece of paper. None of this matters to me. I am lost. I miss my mother.
Read poems from here on down for 3/30
Adilene
*Reminisce
I remember
My first time in
Mexico, the
Wind blowing across
My face--hot and
Humid--making
My hair frizzy
And very unkempt.
I was only three,
Traveling with
My dad. I met
His family for
The first time. I
Remember all
The animals
Running freely,
Unorganized,
Like the stack of
Mail sitting on
My dining room
table, ready
To be opened soon.
*Work
I remember
My first time in
Mexico, the
Wind blowing across
My face--hot and
Humid--making
My hair frizzy
And very unkempt.
I was only three,
Traveling with
My dad. I met
His family for
The first time. I
Remember all
The animals
Running freely,
Unorganized,
Like the stack of
Mail sitting on
My dining room
table, ready
To be opened soon.
I am off to another long shift (for what feels like forever) doing more work than I should, making less than I deserve, with a
manager who knows less than I do, walking around with his head held high as if
he knows it all. All he does is walk around and stare while I bring out racks
full of clothing. Still, he expects me to work harder. Anger consumes me. Ready to
snap, walk away, ignore him... I do what I can and argue about what I can’t. I
dread the next shift, a thing I used to loved.
Lexi Simon
02/18/26
Poem #7
Vancouver, Washington
02/18/26
Poem #7
The smell of
Pines, the breeze
In the sky,
Reminds me why,
The long flight,
The smelly seat,
Being nauseous,
and
having no drink,
No privacy, it
Felt like everyone
Was looking at
Me, it was
definitely worth It
in my opinion,
the bright sky,
The mountains in
View, nothing like
The view out
My window back
Home, laying in
My bed staring
At the clouds,
Trying to see
Around my tree
Made of wire
Stresses me out.
Autumn
Sound Machine
I need you everyday
To fall asleep
To wake up
You soothe me
My mind can rest
I can really focus
The sound constant
Always present
Sometimes I forget
But when you leave
I always know
And cry out loud
Without you
I find no rest
I need you
I long for you
I must be soothed
But how without you
Come back sound
My soul yearns
For my constant
But yet of course
The sound machine
Makes no sound
*Ginger (an elegy)
The can of soda falls hard on the dark grass. A loud bang
shoots through the air. It's amazing how one moment your life is perfect, the next everything is shattered like a bullet through glass. Death creeps through
the earth looking for its next victim. I’m not even coherent. My body has gone on autopilot. Legs running, breath hard and visible in the frigid air, when suddenly I stop, mangled. The image of the one I love torn to shreds. I see
death reaching. My heart hot and my fingers cold. Death, the robber, has done
their deed.
Pines, the breeze
In the sky,
The long flight,
The smelly seat,
having no drink,
No privacy, it
Was looking at
Me, it was
in my opinion,
the bright sky,
The mountains in
View, nothing like
My window back
Home, laying in
At the clouds,
Trying to see
Made of wire
Stresses me out.
To fall asleep
To wake up
My mind can rest
I can really focus
Always present
Sometimes I forget
I always know
And cry out loud
I find no rest
I need you
I must be soothed
But how without you
My soul yearns
For my constant
The sound machine
Makes no sound
Garrett
*A Rusty Seeder Inside a Tree
Looking to my
water bottle,
no longer used,
I wonder what
is to be found
in that great world—
I miss the field
I miss the birds
I miss the trees
—Here it’s closed up,
things are solid,
caked, and mucky
Probably just
winter getting
to me I guess
But things are light,
the rain is here:
DARKNESS BEGONE...
“Dressed for the beach”
I hear from you,
“Michiana Type”
Perhaps I’ll go
out to the woods,
home for that “type”
Where the rust lay
and the people
are ‘placed with trees
**Supernova
In an old industrial building I’d never been to before. I
think we’re at the wrong place. Yet this feeling of the atmospheric is inherent to the Midwest, this grainy feeling. I know it well. Splitting the shell on the
outside, an assault of vibrations echoes in my ears and through my chest, a
death laser, yet with no point, an inverse black hole drowning whatever hopes
and dreams I had surrounding the place. A realm of caring and calamity, garage
band hospitality. Teardrop was at the bar with the punk rock guy, which finally
saved me from the kindred assault.
POEM #7 (Zoie)
*EVERYTHING HAS A VOICE
The leaves drip dew
from the morning
heat. Sun hits my
body, like meeting
a far-away friend.
A cool breeze blows,
caressing my face.
Thin grass dances
along, singing, the
music of the sky,
the earth, its many
creatures sharing
their stories across
the world for all
to hear. I lay
back on the ground,
staring at a flower
pot. Dirty and cracked,
it sits holding
hearts. Ones that are
bleeding. Yet, so
full of beauty.
They sing their own
song, rich with life.
POEM #8
*CRASH
The noise is what wakes me up. Wakes me out of the black
space my mind has created, unsure if it wants me to remember. A rush of
sickness comes next, like my stomach riding the biggest rollercoaster without
me. My vision is shaky, like a cameraman with jitters, swooshing around in big
swoops. Nothing feels real; I am suspended in space, just floating, waiting to
be pulled back down. Then the vibrations hit me like a massage chair
malfunctioning. I reach for my little box, desperate to have a grounding voice.
The world slows, as the sirens grow nearer.
**Home (Hudson Borzeniatow) (lots of personification)
The waves crash against
a quaint farmhouse
I see a red
Herring jump into
the green sea foam.
It flips me the bird!
Trudging through the
sand I find a
rusty nail with
My left foot. It’s
tetanus coating
gives me a warm
Embrace. Days turn
Into hours into
days until I
Find the water's edge.
Slipping into
The icy dark void
I find a red
Sofa. Complete
With all the rips,
Stains, and watery
Tears that make it
Feel a lot like home
*Nostalgia
heat. Sun hits my
a far-away friend.
A cool breeze blows,
Thin grass dances
along, singing, the
the earth, its many
creatures sharing
the world for all
to hear. I lay
staring at a flower
pot. Dirty and cracked,
hearts. Ones that are
bleeding. Yet, so
They sing their own
song, rich with life.
The waves crash against
a quaint farmhouse
I see a red
Herring jump into
the green sea foam.
It flips me the bird!
Trudging through the
sand I find a
rusty nail with
My left foot. It’s
tetanus coating
gives me a warm
Embrace. Days turn
Into hours into
days until I
Find the water's edge.
Slipping into
The icy dark void
I find a red
Sofa. Complete
With all the rips,
Stains, and watery
Tears that make it
Feel a lot like home
A little boy trudges through the pristine white snow, five-gallon bucket in hand. No older than ten he keeps a careful mind to
avoid chasms, slush, and anything else that would lead to a possible demise. Just a little further, he thinks, his hands chilling
faster than his coat pockets can warm them. Finally, content with his location,
he takes a seat and catches his breath. Then, armed with a 6-inch drill, he punches his way through the very thing holding him afloat. All that's left is to bait the
hook and wait. It’s a great day to be alive.
*Dream (Olivia)
My heartbeat is
irregular
as I glance at
golden embers
of light beaming
off the water.
A dog paddles
to driftwood floating,
rotted from years.
Milkweed sprouts from
the marshy landscape,
clinging to life.
He makes this noise,
high pitched like my
teapot back home.
I get a call,
my mom asking
if I am home.
She says she can
hear me crying,
banging on walls.
Obedience
Scared of losing control, I refrain from acknowledging the cracks that form on sidewalks. I ignore the smell of dew in the air if I prefer freshly cut blades of grass. My fingers tap to the song I choose to live by which can change from day to day. No familiarity, just comfortability. Pacing from wall to door deciding if I can go outside or if the bed called me first. Maybe closing our eyes is better because all it takes is one look from the window to see the tragedy that did not occur. Who’s lying in the street?
Poem 7
Mourning Wake -Pancho Garza
I scrunch my nose
As soured fruit flows
Through empty trees
With hurried steps
March to cover
Blocking foul stench
With air blown in
As doors open wide
I rest assured
With spinning discs
Humming quiet tunes
With echoing peace
Scented candles
Sway persistent
Welcoming others
Cinnamon wafts
Tickling my nose
With eased subtleness
Door’s sway open wide
Gushing crisp air
Shivering cats
Twirling sour sweet
Through archway gates
Growing chicken skins
Poem 8
Soured Walk- Pancho Garza
Walking hurriedly with subtle winds gushing forth. With supplied scents of soured and spoiled fruits. Laid bare on solid concrete with cushioned leaves. Walking past the mess hurriedly as though it was another problem to face. With chest full and back weighed down not wanting to have any more added to my own thoughts, I watch darkened skies flutter by as though they have nothing to worry about. When leaves shudder and quake with expense at what will come. The double doors swing open, inviting me to go in. Gushing with air at my arrival asking if I am ready.
POEM 7 (Megan)
*I could
The bed is unmade,
as it has stayed
for some time now.
Why should I make
the bed when there
is so much more?
I could roll in
the fields of grass
and pretty plants.
I could climb the
tallest tree I
can find out there.
I could stare at
the birds and the
beetles all day.
I could wash away
all the dirt on
me in the streams.
I could swim in
the lake with the
fish and seaweed.
So no, I will
not make my bed
at this moment.
It may be messy
but I exist,
finally free.
POEM 8
**Flower
The flower is in my hands. It is dainty and beautiful,
and so easy to ruin. It would be so simple to pluck the petals one by one. To
release my hold upon them, let the wind decide what is next for them. To take
the stem and tear it apart until it is unrecognizable to everybody in this
world. How can I hold something so fragile and sweet yet have these terrifying
thoughts? How can I look at a living piece of art, the very thing that I would
easily give my soul to, and want to ruin it?
Poem 7 (Cesar
Jaramillo 2/18/2026)
Underdog
Greed is here
Lurking, waiting
Hovers over us
A fox, hunting
A rabbit hiding
Thunder rolls in
TV static, I worry
For more money.
My hunt is money
Like a fox.
Rustled in grass
Hidden from prey
Sinks its teeth
Death follows.
An eagle
Blue sky, yet hidden
Unseen. Poor fox
Greed wins.
Never beating
The game. Victory
Is not yours
Dead fox, dead
Rabbit. Not the
Eagle is contempt
That is greed
Forever above you
Always watching.
Poem 8 (Cesar Jaramillo 2/18/2026)
**Restroom
The ground slips underneath me. Damp with my own sorrow. Standing like a
statue in the rain. Pills in the cabinet. The mirror reflects a stranger. Toothpaste-splattered faucet. Steam covers the egg-wash colored room. Hair stuck to the ground with urine stains. The rusted-out razor with the toothbrush that looks like someone had it since they were six. I wipe the steam off the window. Stained from when I last wiped it off. I hardly see my reflection in the metal anymore. Limescale scum in every crevasse here. Clean yourself up.
**A Smashed Window (Francine Coffer)
I am aware
The building holds
No hatred. I
Am aware my
Anger is
Misdirected
To the building
That now only
Entertains weeds,
Though I can’t help
But feel joy seeing
Its windows are
Broken, I still
Feel like a child
On Christmas day
Knowing that the
Halls have gone
Silent. The fire
In my heart burns.
The building is
Empty. Yet the
The fire still
Burns and should be
Pointed at the
One who left the
Gas canister
By the fire pit,
but he’s gone.
*Eyes (Francine Coffer)
My heartbeat is
irregular
as I glance at
golden embers
of light beaming
off the water.
A dog paddles
to driftwood floating,
rotted from years.
Milkweed sprouts from
the marshy landscape,
clinging to life.
He makes this noise,
high pitched like my
teapot back home.
I get a call,
my mom asking
if I am home.
She says she can
hear me crying,
banging on walls.
Scared of losing control, I refrain from acknowledging the cracks that form on sidewalks. I ignore the smell of dew in the air if I prefer freshly cut blades of grass. My fingers tap to the song I choose to live by which can change from day to day. No familiarity, just comfortability. Pacing from wall to door deciding if I can go outside or if the bed called me first. Maybe closing our eyes is better because all it takes is one look from the window to see the tragedy that did not occur. Who’s lying in the street?
Poem 7
I scrunch my nose
As soured fruit flows
Through empty trees
With hurried steps
March to cover
Blocking foul stench
With air blown in
As doors open wide
I rest assured
With spinning discs
Humming quiet tunes
With echoing peace
Scented candles
Sway persistent
Welcoming others
Cinnamon wafts
Tickling my nose
With eased subtleness
Door’s sway open wide
Gushing crisp air
Shivering cats
Twirling sour sweet
Through archway gates
Growing chicken skins
Poem 8
Soured Walk- Pancho Garza
Walking hurriedly with subtle winds gushing forth. With supplied scents of soured and spoiled fruits. Laid bare on solid concrete with cushioned leaves. Walking past the mess hurriedly as though it was another problem to face. With chest full and back weighed down not wanting to have any more added to my own thoughts, I watch darkened skies flutter by as though they have nothing to worry about. When leaves shudder and quake with expense at what will come. The double doors swing open, inviting me to go in. Gushing with air at my arrival asking if I am ready.
as it has stayed
for some time now.
the bed when there
is so much more?
the fields of grass
and pretty plants.
tallest tree I
can find out there.
the birds and the
beetles all day.
all the dirt on
me in the streams.
the lake with the
fish and seaweed.
not make my bed
at this moment.
but I exist,
finally free.
Underdog
Greed is here
Lurking, waiting
Hovers over us
A fox, hunting
A rabbit hiding
Thunder rolls in
TV static, I worry
For more money.
My hunt is money
Like a fox.
Rustled in grass
Hidden from prey
Sinks its teeth
Death follows.
An eagle
Blue sky, yet hidden
Unseen. Poor fox
Greed wins.
Never beating
The game. Victory
Is not yours
Dead fox, dead
Rabbit. Not the
Eagle is contempt
That is greed
Forever above you
Always watching.
**Restroom
The ground slips underneath me. Damp with my own sorrow. Standing like a
statue in the rain. Pills in the cabinet. The mirror reflects a stranger. Toothpaste-splattered faucet. Steam covers the egg-wash colored room. Hair stuck to the ground with urine stains. The rusted-out razor with the toothbrush that looks like someone had it since they were six. I wipe the steam off the window. Stained from when I last wiped it off. I hardly see my reflection in the metal anymore. Limescale scum in every crevasse here. Clean yourself up.
I am aware
The building holds
No hatred. I
Am aware my
Anger is
Misdirected
To the building
That now only
Entertains weeds,
Though I can’t help
But feel joy seeing
Its windows are
Broken, I still
Feel like a child
On Christmas day
Knowing that the
Halls have gone
Silent. The fire
In my heart burns.
The building is
Empty. Yet the
The fire still
Burns and should be
Pointed at the
One who left the
Gas canister
By the fire pit,
but he’s gone.
They crawl all over my skin. They make my skin burn
like the scorching heart of the sun. I try to hide away from them in shadows of
the between, but they continue to crawl and rip apart my skin. It feels like
their eyes wish to wear my skin like a form-fitting dress or they wish to see
what’s underneath. They burn paths up my spine, they burn holes into me, and
there’s nothing I can do. Hiding makes them feel like a cut not healing, but
standing there makes me feel like a patient under the knife.
CANYE SENT POEMS BUT IN PDF THEREFORE CANNOT POST
Of a small bird
In the bucket
A killdeer caught
With her bare hands,
In the meadow,
Round the corner,
Release her child.
But she's not done
Inspecting the babe.
Black bands tighten
Around its neck
As though a noose
Has formed by birth-
right. It’s no use
Fighting the fat
Fingered child that
Holds her there. Still.
*THE WEIGHT
The dandelion seeds dance along long ribbons of wind. My
wish seems dire, frantic, lost. I am a tornado that uproots lilies and subjects
them to a slow, withering death. I wish to be the slow, rolling waves that hide
the predators who prowl in the deep ocean below them. I wish to take them with
me and store them in a conch shell to use when I feel homesick. The heavy thing
bears the weight of my past, but I must carry it onward. For I am not me
without those whistling whispers of waves tickling my ear drum.
Around its neck
Has formed by birth-
right. It’s no use
Fingered child that
Holds her there. Still.
Home (Charles)
Many of miles from
My far quaint home
One of simplicity
For I need little
I ensure the work
Is done in time
We shovel and
We scrape snow
We clean the
Pantry and halls
We mow the land
And clean the trees
We rake leaves and
Prepare the fire
Home that I love
A familial embrace
Comments
Post a Comment