Silencio"¡Pero no dije nada!"Silencio3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The Sum of InfinityI don't know if I'll ever tell my children about you.The Sum of Infinity5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
(I don't know if I'll even have descendants.)
A family was never on my to-do list,
until you came along.
You made me wonder if I wanted kids, just so I could say to them
"You know, the day your dad and I met…"
because I thought we could last forever,
and I'm still not sure if we have.
Our friendship endures, even as I fall asleep
picturing her arms around you,
and I wonder if you'll ever come back to me
but spend every day noticing the reasons I'm glad you left
and hoping you'll return.
Never intending to fall in love,
we were an item
before you knew my name.
She reclaimed you,
you still belong to me
by virtue of the ampersand connecting our names
in the mind of every person
who watched us walk,
tall & short,
monochrome & kaleidoscope,
yin & yang,
through the winding, leaf-littered pathways
that are our life.
TeeterWhen I wake,Teeter2 years ago in Visual & Found Poetry More Like This
among the stars,
on the brink
between dreams and reality.
It’s so easy
to see through the
between waking life...
and the power of Imagination,
that same other world
in a sea of dreams.
HelpTurning away...hoping you'll chase me.Help2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Forests of the Mind"And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything." William ShakespeareForests of the Mind2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
In the forest my thoughts
ring unnaturally loud,
like a voice on
an open stage
when nobody’s around.
Stories unfold in my mind,
new leaves in the spring
unfurling from pale green buds
like butterflies emerging
from their chrysalis,
the pages of a never-ending saga
written in birdsong
and soft, wind-rustled branches.
My mind flows like the brook,
smoothing the rough edges
of my narrative, fluid and free
until time catches me
and my thoughts are drawn irrevocably back
into the endless revisions
of the real world.
Why Peter is not a poet.Cole is eleven. Age matters in October, when twelve is the only difference between the haunted hayride and the shelled corn sandbox. Age matters when a boy says the word "shit" in school (and Cole does). But age doesn't matter when the same boy has both sneakers dangling over the edge of a 250-foot grain silo, his hands sweaty on the rungs, the state of Nebraska breathing vacant and honeyed and infinite below him. For the first time in his life, Cole can't be quantified by the candles on his last birthday cake. Cole is young, but today, he is worth saving. Three facts about Cole:Why Peter is not a poet.4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
1. His eyebrows are the most expressive arches his body has to offer.
2. He's so terrified that his very expressive eyebrows are threatening to take up permanent residence in his hairline.
3. He does not have suicidal tendencies, and later understands--for the sake of his mother's heart and Officer Roy's bladder control--that his strategies for
CrepuscularTo the girl teaching herself to fly,Crepuscular4 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
a hospital bird with soot in her lungs
and patchwork wings,
you only fly for a little while.
If you want to stop hurting,
learn to drift in the silence of the dark
between night and day.
We're all made from broken parts:
bird seed, letters addressed to no one,
things found in old coats,
brittle things like love.
Glass bottomed birds,
we used to make butterfly hands,
until moths swarmed into our throats,
like dancing butterflies; still
we choked on dusty wings.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs,
the same smoke that you'll inhale.
Let go, little bird --
You were made for moonlight,
never for hummingbird lullabies --
Hummingbirds only fly in the sun,
and the sun was never a child.
We were not meant to be angels.
The nestlings, children of the stars,
we glide together on clipped wings
through the dark.
Sans regrets: Part II"I miss you."Sans regrets: Part II3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Message not sent.
MomentsRemember that time we sat on the bench together, waiting for the bus? You were quiet, like you always were, and I thought nothing of it. But then you turned to me, an unreadable look in your eyes, and you asked me what I liked most about life. I just stared at you, unsure how to answer. You seemed to take my silence as something bad.Moments10 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
“Never mind,” You mumbled. “It was a stupid question.”
“No, no.” I hurried to assure you. “I was just thinking. What I like best about life would probably be all the little moments that happen that end up meaning so much and all the people you meet along the way.” I shrugged and you hummed, turning back to face forward.
You didn’t come to the bus stop the next day.
Remember that hot summer day, the one when it was too hot to even think? I was complaining about how much I was sweating, and you were, as usual, responding with noncommittal noises. The bus was running late that day, and I was cursing every
lacunae of longing, loftiness of wordsinked and reaching, this is my remembrall fleshlacunae of longing, loftiness of words4 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
and if we were to never speak again
you'll find the rest of my bones in the graveyard eaten by a dream
i hear knives in the wind and earth inside me
survival is a balancing act-
a selection of extrasensory impulses
a fracture in late august
a week of kisses
and i am crying out for time not yet lost
when stars collapse,
the sunshine shaking heart of the universe will burn with me
while looking for a silver lining in the sea
on the edge of nowhere laughter speaks with death
about maps not meant for following
when i think about you, i remember it all wrong
maybe you were just a hit and run
strange how the mind fades o
Two PoemsPainted over with the years’ blemishesTwo Poems2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Old. Battered. Familiar.
Case chased with filigree colored by tarnished silver
Kept in the bottom of my knickknacks drawer.
Even today, I can still feel the warmth of his fingers,
The heat where he held it, nested in the palm of his hand.
Winding the key, as he taught me to do,
Always counterclockwise, turning back the time,
Time measured in seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, and lifetimes
Colored by the memories of those who pass beyond it,
Held in reminiscence by objects left behind.
A fleeting messenger that heralds both
The birth and death of every plot and scheme,
That hopelessly entwines the strands of fate
And cuts the thread of life we all must weave
Can ne’er be understood through measured count,
Though every second ticked its weight has felt,
And when it swift is passing, this is but
A construct of our human minds in vain
Attempt to comprehend the limitless
And vast entwinéd river that is wrapped
Around our very being.
Silencio (Version 2)"¡Pero no he dicho nada!"Silencio (Version 2)2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The Only Thing Missing Is You7:55 PMThe Only Thing Missing Is You5 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
you would have liked today. we went upstate like we used to, to the woods. i know it's been a while since you've seen the trees but they're as pretty as ever. they're just starting to fall. i wish you could have been there.
i always wait for a reply from you, haha. then i remember
anyway, we took a walk down to this lake too. there were rope swings hanging from a tree nearby and we froze our asses off swinging for nearly twenty minutes. i swear it felt like we were floating.
hell, it was everything you used to love
it's funny, on the ride home i was practically falling asleep, but now i can't even shut my eyes
it's just... it's not fair
whenever i skipped a rock i remembered the first time i taught you how, and how excited you got. every time i said i was cold i remembered the way you would call me a baby, but give me your hat anyway. we even walked on the same paths we used to take, and everything is the same. the trees are st
VI I. Today I am Vanilla teaVI8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
on balmy days when the air is still
fresh with the scent of cicadas
and mown grass baked in the sun
clippings stuck to your feet as you
Sans regrets"I love you."Sans regrets3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Message not received
Brushing Up Against HistoryNovember 1963Brushing Up Against History4 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
I'm eight years old and sitting in class (I strangely recall that my seat was in the middle of second row, on the side away from the window), when the principal comes in to tell us that the president has been shot.
I do not know
what it means, but I know
that it scares me.
My mother meets Senator Robert F. Kennedy while he is campaigning in San Francisco and gets his autograph. I live with my father in a small town in Michigan, where every year leading up to Memorial Day, I sell paper poppies for the VFW.
blood of soldiers on the field
war has come home
I watch the news and see the body count, arranged like a scorecard. The numbers say we are winning, but one of those numbers is from our town, the only casualty that week. I don't know him, but I see his picture on the cover of Life Magazine.
I turn 17 the next month
and try to join the Marine Corp
my father will not sign
As a small-town b
A ClicheI wish I could sing you a love songA Cliche3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
about roses and stars and the rain
but I couldn't sing like the blackbird in spring
so I think I will simply refrain.
I wish I could tell you a story
about beauty and trust and my heart
but all I could say's what they say every day
So I don't even know where to start.
I wish I could write you a poem
'bout the birds and the bees and my bed
but all I would write's being said every night
So I wrote you a cliche instead.
the difference between poets and practical mena practical manthe difference between poets and practical men1 year ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
feels rain and hurries indoors.
a poet gives pause
to see waves surging throughout
oceans in every raindrop.
macrocosmici.macrocosmic5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
i have a theory
that the size
of the universe
is measured in
so small that it
became big again
thus we are all
and each other
and our expanses
when we touch
and the universe
every nebula or
a star was re-
that wasn't nothing
or a nothing
lately the hole
in my chest
so i will observe
and wait for
a bleak space imploding
stark ribs contracting
is this a refraction
of some light unsourced
or bouts of redacting
doubts interacting with stellar patterns
unquell our orbital shackling. we're asking
seas to stay churning while ashes keep spurning
our totems over
in certain collapse
i'm a supernova