five seasonsa girl on my lawn
watching peaches blossom—
you awaken me.
we stretch, having slept too long,
and dine under fireworks.
your birthday gift—
picnicking the harvest moon
much too quietly.
the frost sets in, whispering,
we've said all there is to say.
the easy way out,
a letter on the sill.
peach trees blossom still.
Five Seasons (Alternate) There was this moment, early last May, when I could have glanced up from the book I was reading at the breakfast table.Five Seasons (Alternate)2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I could look out my window and see you standing on my lawn, this waif in a windbreaker grinning at a daydream you're probably too old for. I could bring you an umbrella. I could invite you in for coffee, and we could lose the whole day debating questionable Scrabble plays. We could take to the streets after dark and try to find an all-night diner that will feed us both for less than fifteen dollars. I could fall in love with you.
But I don't.
You go home with nothing but a story about how springtime leaves you feeling lonely. Your roommate blows off a dinner date to take you out for drinks. You send a Chardonnay up to the stage between sets and the singer takes you home.
The new girl at work works up the nerve to ask me out.
I don't have a reason to say no.
AtlantisSometimes I think Atlantis wasAtlantis2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Nothing but a sandcastle
Built below the tide line,
And maybe so were we.
The Zephyr and the StormOdyssey into 2012The Zephyr and the Storm3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Chapter 8: The Zephyr and the Storm
Time is but the storm, my love, nothing more; but you—
you are the Zephyr, the wind that carries the storm.
The words still rang in her ears like so many church bells,
a clarion thunder announcing the birth of some false prophet.
After all this time, she couldn't possibly be the Zephyr—
but she was. She could feel it.
And if she let herself, she knew she would carry this storm
off the edge of the world, and then next year would never come—
tomorrow would never come. No, it was too much power for her.
The storm would end in Tokyo.
"You're doing the right thing," he tried to assure her.
With a wave of his hand, another gate opened.
She pulled him close, gave him her last kiss. "I love you.
words to say to your reflectioni am a collection of dust and stars,words to say to your reflection10 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
blue luster in a sea of inky void.
i am a tongue licking lips, clicking against teeth,
shaping sounds that matter.
i am the lightning that explodes in purple storm clouds,
four miles of haphazard beauty
on a lonely night.
i am the sea in autumn, still holding the warmth of a summer of sunlight,
though the air outside is cold
i am the snow at 6am.
i have not been touched, not stepped on. my surface is smooth as glass.
i am the snow at 6pm.
i am still beautiful.
i am the sound of rain just before sunrise
on a sunday morning.
i am the swirl of cream in a coffee,
blossoming and unfolding like a galaxy.
i am the smell of lavender
after a storm.
i am breathing.
The Gods Are Fishingi.The Gods Are Fishing4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Stray satellites catch
hearts in nets designed for souls;
the gods are fishing.
is life's purpose,
She says. We are damned.
of the children? I muse,
They giggle - full with purpose.
are most lost of all, toys
of the gods. Toys, She insists.
grow from grins
to smiles constrained
with dreams into futures
of lists and week-to-weeks.
grope in the dark
for meaning; sustenance
found only in others --
adults play pretend:
donning shirts and ties.
They keep the keys.
Meaning is found in
musings of gods; promise in
halosidestepping broken bottles,halo3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
she trudges homeward—
high heels in one hand,
halo in the other.
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.Moments8 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
when i dance, it isthe only timewhen i dance, it is2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
that all parts of me
are no longer lying
around in places
that i long ago
and the pieces
come back into
an order that although
cracked and glued
enough to use again
philosophewords tumbled out of yourphilosophe3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
mouth. urgent, thin lipped
maiden. the king has lost his
heart to the weeping of his
he drags them to bed with
crocodile tears and false
you cried from the tower,
regicide. the king is murdered
and his heart is displayed for
all to see. torn through by the
greedy fingers of his lovers, he
could not sputter a complaint to
their bodies sank into the
mattresses and blood stained the
floorboards. we knew this would
become of them all. such unfavorable
faces, the gods could not
my hands cannot move fast
enough to save your story, i
can only watch you tremble.
eyes thick like fog, you repeat.
the king has lost his heart.
carousel of lovewinter creeps in on quiet feet, as do i; watching carefully from the lobby as the man i've come to love enters with snowflakes in his beard. he pauses for just a moment to shake some stray flakes from his jacket and wring out his scarf. i see and take note, but don't let him notice--i am too shy to face the consequences.carousel of love1 year ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
he is completely unlike my ex; pale skin a far cry from the freckles of fantasies past. he is tall and slim with sincere eyes, and a beautiful set of thin lips that have never lied to me.
he smells like mint and trees, scents that have occupied my car since the day he let himself in as i lost myself, wiping tears from my face with all the care you'd bestow a toddler.
i had felt so stupid then--still feel small when he looks at me--but i'll never forget the fingers that flexed gently around my ribcage as he cradled me above the center console and whispered that everything would be alright.
i'd have never believed a man could be so patient, except that i see it ev
OrnithologyI sometimes imagine us,Ornithology2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Years down the road, sitting
On the patio of a London bistro
Much more sophisticated than we are.
We'll waste the afternoon drinking tea
As impolitely as we can.
We'll chat too loudly about absolutely nothing,
But with such authority the woman one table over—
The one with the ugly scarf,
Because it's always the one with the ugly scarf—
Will mistake you for someone famous.
We'll spend the next hour reminiscing
Youthful conquests, like Cleopatra might,
Or Anne Boleyn.
Then we'll make-believe
Like nothing's wrong with us.
We'll call it a day—
Find a good pub and drink a bottle of gin,
After watching an English bird glide by
In a sundress, and we remember that
We came here to forget.
We used to call it "hen-hunting,"
This want for a wife,
Back when we had a sporting chance.
here's what i think.I was a better person when I wrote.here's what i think.3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I was a better person when I wrote about boys who'd never return my feelings on silver platters, and ships long lost, or drowned, at sea. It sounds like a disaster, but I only write well with the ashes of a crumpled, discarded spirit mixed with the still-warm tears of a troubled soul.
Words kept me human, for they are what makes us human, and they distanced me from the animal I could become. All I do now is stalk around the concrete city, pace about my enclosure, and think about how my bitterness and I can never be released in the wilderness again.
Before the city stole my words away, I was living in the harbor locked up in a crumbling lighthouse, hoping that some northeasterly wind would blow him back to me. I still yearn, but the sea-stained melody gets lost in the traffic and it's easier to be whole without it haunting my every second.
But, the truth is, I'm burning for more.
I'm not whole without part of him missing, and if I'm filling up the
macrocosmici.macrocosmic3 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
JoyMay life whisperJoy1 year ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
joy through your veins
before lidding your eyes.
Paradigm ShiftEmerging flash of starlight papParadigm Shift8 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
between sunset and ocean cap
colliding spang into my eyes
for once to have me realize
not everything becomes a song,
and I shall sleep before too long.
Divination as a Means of Finding a Way Back 1. I say nothing I am thinking.Divination as a Means of Finding a Way Back3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
For twelve years I have wanted
to do exactly this, but suddenly
pronouncing my own name calls up
the question of who it belongs to
in the same breath Like
Solomon I was born a singer
but in the wrong key and my
chords will not carry me, will not
summon the wolves to me only
packs of hungry dogs
stupid with domestication
but nearly feral And like
a hungry ghost I have learned
not to speak against those
who will give me food
2. A sketch of myself.
He says I must have been born
in the wrong culture, he says. I got a taste of
the crackling heat here, heat to drive you crazy,
and suddenly I open my wide arms for
New Orleans, find myself needing the wind from
the Great Plains. Like a buffalo I have the spirit
of the Sun and I carry it with me. I am a plant
of burnt umber,
brown, ready and waiting like
sage bushes, like the hill you go to that is best
for collecting jun
The Importance of Gold FlecksHereditary.The Importance of Gold Flecks2 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
I learned the meaning of the word when I was young on a summer afternoon. Too hot to play outside, I was sitting with my dad on our blue couch with the small white polka dot fabric. In retrospect, it was probably a tacky piece of furniture, but love is unconditional when you are small, and I sure did love that couch. I remember my dad watching Winnie the Pooh with me every Saturday morning on its spotted cushions. That day, though, we had a conversation about eyes that I never forgot, and even then, its deeper meaning was not lost on me.
"Daddy, your eyes are green like a cat's," I said.
He smiled, and told me that mine were also green, but unlike his, they changed colors. "Sometimes they are blue. Your eyes were so blue when you were a baby! Big and blue.... Someti
a ribcage drenched in dusti have your ribcage, you said.a ribcage drenched in dust3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
what should i put in it?
i told you i'd always wanted a fire,
the kind that would fill my eyes with starlight
and pump my blood full of passion, but
you're made of wildflowers, you said.
a fire would burn you to ash.
you wanted to fill my chest with
the sound of a train, whistling
far away in the night;
with the sound of rain smacking leaves;
with the sound the wind makes
when it seems like it's trying to speak
and you wanted to throw in the
smell of midnight in august
and the feeling of sand being
sucked out from under your feet
when the ocean inhales,
and the strange little moment of
bittersweet joy you get when
someone else puts your soul into words
and you realize you're not as alone as you thought.
i told you that if i had all that inside me,
i'd ache all the time
and you smiled a sad little smile,
because you already knew that ache.
because you were a writer, and you ached all the time.
i've got it, i said.
A Note on DrowningI am writing this letter for myself. If you have found this letter, please give it to me. If you find that I lack the will to read, if my mind is gone, if my hands are bloodied, tell me at least, that the song is near its end. If I am dead [indistinguishable]A Note on Drowning3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
[Written in the margin: IF I AM DEAD THROW ME TO THE SEA]
In laying out the bones of my terrors, a solution may be found.
I’ll start before the beginning, when Mother took me for walks on the beach and told stories. Together we missed my father, who sailed the sea. These are my earliest memories, but I remember things had always been this way. We walked together, and I counted my many steps and Mother’s few. When I stretched my legs, I could make it so my path went over only her footprints.
The sand was soft where she had stepped. Elsewhere was gritty, and unclean.
I was young for all of Mother’s stories. Here I will write the relevant one as best I remember.
“A sailor was on a ship. This ship was far of
Odyssey Chapter 1: DescentAs she steps through the gate, a sparkling, silver wind sweeps around her, its soft whisper echoing around her in the emptiness, murmuring, singing, shining. One single word, one solitary breath that holds a vast amount of meaningOdyssey Chapter 1: Descent3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
The girl stands on the other side of the gate, a small smile playing on her lips as she watches cherry blossoms float by on the wind. Her eyes sparkle as light flows up around her, enveloping her in its grasp, the wind blowing her golden hair away from her head. Her pointed ears twitch, and then the elf-maiden falls.
Her descent seems like an eternity through the shadows, before a small, malevolent laugh fills the air. Then, with a sudden jolt, she lands on something hard, something rough and dirty, flooded with light. The pavement that has rushed up to meet her face brings a new sensation with it pain.
As she slowly lifts herself up, she looks around her, slightly dazed from her travel. A long cut runs from her cheek down to he
the center of the universewhen i die, the earth will remain unchanged.the center of the universe6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
mountains will still soar above the plains, and
the moon will stay in control of the oceans,
repeating it's orbit around our planet.
when i die, cities in africa will remain the same.
buildings will not tumble to the ground, and
the citizens will go about their daily lives,
repeating their orbit around the sun.
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
open letter to my first holy communion teacherdear miss bond,open letter to my first holy communion teacher2 years ago in Letters More Like This
you may or may not remember me. you taught me religion at my local church, we called it First Holy Communion but i always secretly thought it was brainwashing. you were so passionate about it, you seemed to make it palatable. it is only in later years, seeing what religion is, that i have recanted my faith. but you - when i think of you, i still feel my fingers twitching to bless the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost. i think of the lace squares that you would give us, your children; your flock, when we learnt a prayer. parrot this, child, and you shall be given pretty, clean edged doilies. white lace, it was rough on our fingertips. religion bought us and we shall have the steady thudding of Our Father in our minds from the rest of our lives. you made it a blessing to believe. the reality is; it is a curse. i hope you can never see that.
i have been thinking about the concept of sin. we are all born with original sin. i hear that purgatory is outdated, now? that's a sham