Sep 27

Sonnet of Feathers

Can I describe this thing that beats like wings

That steps with every fall of my feet

That sits in my rib cage and sings

What is this thing that flutters when I sleep?

Can I describe this thing played out in keys 

That fills my mouth with everything but words

With a breath it has brought me to my knees

What is this that has turned me to a bird?

I cannot describe it, I’m drunk on this

With every fall of your sacred limbs, Oh

I can’t stand the temptation of your kiss

And so I am far away from sorrow

Today, tomorrow, she takes my hand, and

Every pulse of my veins at her command. 


 
Sep 13

Piano and Candy

Hands held in tight conversation
tongue bitten in sweet concentration
Sticky piano fingers
stretched out like rainforest frogs
and my rainbow toes
pressed up against the body of the thing

Just to feel your heart beats
played out in tune
your hands weave a spell
that holds me frozen
yet makes me yearn to heard
​just to feel your candy lips 
 
Aug 31

Cold

Cold is your warm hand

Soft with gold and rosy cheeks

And the air is sharp

 
Aug 31

Morning

Morning is the bees

It is the sun in my eyes

And under blankets



 
Aug 31

Because It Is Now

I hold you because

Loving you is stars breathing 

Because it is now

 
Aug 27

I have written poems like this before

I have written poems like this before
when words are hard to grasp
when feelings come in racking waves
what keep my pen from forming thoughts
that keep my mind from working right
like all my gears have rusted

I have written poems like this before
when somethings just so overwhelming
when im lovesick 
when heartbroke
when my mind refuses to cope
like I just cant draw it out 
I just cant deplete the purity of what it is 

I have written poems like this before 
a depth that can only really truly be named
with the smallest of things. 
 
Jul 30

Bird

You made me a beautiful thing 
Of feathers and sunlight
Just by pressing 
Your lips to my knuckles

You made me a creature of the air
Now I flit around
Head in the clouds
Just because you held my hand

You made me a bird
Made my heart flutter 
With a thousand golden wings
Just because of your arms around me 

 
Jun 30

Why Can't I Write Poetry Anymore?


I wonder if there is such a thing as too much feeling
maybe my arms ache for you too much to hold the pen

 
Apr 07

Apology For Summer's Love

Today I must apologize 
for the dry summer wind 
that carried words to you from me
In outbursts of selfish misery.
Today I must apologize 
for the lovesick river waters
that curved around your tired body 
thoughtless of your hungry belly.
Today I must apologize
for the sweet singing birds
which flited gleefully bout your head
ignorant of your heart of lead.
Tonight I must apologize 
for my weeping autumn eyes
which cried to you in fits of woe 
for all you suffered some months ago.
I beg of you forgiveness please
do not hate me for this deed
for it is you my dearest love
whom I adore more than the sun.



 
Mar 28

Spring Eyes

Spring tells the truths that winter hid.
Spring unearths last year's lies.
As the snow layed like sugar on the ground
red rimmed eyes were clouded with storms.
As the snow melts the clouds dissipate,
and lined in coal they see with spring eyes.
Spring sees the sorrow that winter was blind to,
and the mud holds a love that shows itself in new grass.
 
Feb 04

Relics

Just beneath the surface are hidden treasures.
Silver spoons stained with blood and rust,
tell a complex unguessable web of a tale. 
Imagine, two hundred year old babes 
sipping from this filthy thing you found in the forest.

Lost to my grasp, my memory, my mind,
a hundred thousand puffs of cigar smoke.
a grandfather of a hundred daughters,
lost to the ages, yearning, yet so entirely forgotten. 
Lost to the impenetrable waves of time.

Just behind the tide are hidden horrors.
Who is that maiden drowned some millenia ago,
her pockets filled with pebbles and memories.
Her dress, embroidered by a shaking hand,
was torn by a cruel one. 

Lost to my eyes, my ears, my own hand,
is her angel hair, her sunken eyes, her fluted fingers. 
is the watch she wore at her breast, given by a hundred mothers,
forgotten in a blur of tears so all encompassing. 
Jan 17

Snow

Snow
a new kind of foliage 
setting the landscape in high contrast 
and turning the floor into puddles.
Snow
which lays in flakes on your lovers eyelashes
and seeps from the sky,
each snowflake is an epiphany
each snowflake is a kiss.
Snow
is for children
who come in pink and crying
and for hands, gnarled with time,
which grumble in the morning,
wielding a shovel. 
Snow
is made of soggy mittens
and shivering bare legs, 
which refuse the pants, so well advertised
for the sake of power.
Snow
is purity,
as it languishes,
filthy and stained in the street
and clings to the underside of my car
snow is purity
surely,
stained with piss and blood and soot.
Snow 
is a girl, just thirteen 
who sits at her window,
and watches it fall. 
 
Jan 07
poem challenge: Insurrection

The Capitol

At three o'clock he picked me up from school.
The quiet seeped through the radio,
defining his breathing,
breathing, like before you cry,
like he was on the edge of himself,
of his self control,
because he couldn't cry.
I had asked him what was wrong,
and he answered in a stuttering, red burst.
He said that there was a riot
a mob
a coup.
On the radio they call them protesters,
but I knew.
Protesters don't carry guns.
protesters don't hide bombs in buildings.
protesters don't use teargas.
At home we watched grimly 
as a mob of ugly 
red-faced apes, waving flags 
and wearing red hats and military uniforms
broke windows.
And watched as police officers
stood by, watching,
and opened doors,
and gave out bottles of water.
How could this be?
That when peaceful BLM protesters
were shot and tear-gassed
Dec 27

My love

My love is made of shadows,
and chocolate,
and gummy bears.
Of grit and sunlight,
and cold, bare skin.
My love is made of pink fingertips,
and stars,
and giggling.
Of secrets and dreams,
and a quiet pencil,
and a page turning.
Dec 27

Poetry

Poetry
which sits,
on the lips of flowers,
on the tongue of a hummingbird.
Poetry
which wanders,
through a field of yellow dresses,
through a forest of tangled hair.
Poetry
which slips,
between drunken pages,
between the sheets of a baby's cradle.
Poetry
which calls,
through a haze of anger,
to a lover's sleeping ears.
And poetry
which falls,
through the cracks of the city,
through the window of a man,
who sleeps, eyes open.
and finally
falls from the mouth, 
of a child left, waking.