Posts
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To Gaze at the Results
Water glides along my body,
As I resist the restrictions
That it puts on me.
I propel my legs and arms,
Pulling myself forward,
Fighting the substance
That makes be weightless,
But still makes my muscles ache. -
Holding Ground
The trees stand boldly,
swaying in the gentle wind,
but still holding ground.
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Manipulated Chances
A soccer ball is kicked from a foot,
quickly rolling across the grass.
The grass understands the ball's duty,
and lets itself be flattened
from the glossy sphere.
It's trapped by a cleat
that rolls it away from others. -
Grounding roots
I gently sketch the branches
of a great pine tree.
I craft them to be delicate
but sturdy.
They hold power,
strength, and glory.
I draw the ground high,
so I can show
the roots that ground it. -
Codes Into My Flute
My fingers dance across my keys,
My lips bend into my embouchure,
And a soft note arises.
My fingers know what to do,
Shifting and caressing,
punching a code into the instrument. -
Copper Wires Entwining
I snip the wire, letting it fall.
The shard flutters into my hand,
Willing to lend me a chance.
I begin to bend, twist,
And twirl the copper string.
I manipulate the metal,
Braiding it, and entwing it
Loves
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Charcoal
Charcoal
is our preferred method
with which to sketch our days
thick, dark swaths of pigment
that smear and make their mark
unapologetically
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Helpless
I saw a photo
Of you when you still had hair
Brown, nothing
Special, that hair was.
I forgot what you looked likeWith hair that didn’t come off when you traded it
For a hat.
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pushes through
art is love and love pushes through.
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11/1
Tears are cakey. They're extreme. Maybe that's why nobody wants to see them. It feels like you're seeing somebody nude. Can I tell you what I love? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.
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As The World Spins 'Round
A group of girls
in a circle in the shade
talk quietly in the world
their voices rising and falling
a stream of consciousness
pulling from their minds
memories of the day before.
A whistle
a ball
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VT
vermont is a half-finished poem with all the lines scratched out.
grandfathers who’ve lived here their whole lives still talk of leaving,