Tag: poem
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Breaking Blossom
wild delicate body three hands and a foot long lonely, rippling home swan/step swan/step twilight is the blessing then at times, the only thing the fleeting respite from days steeped in inhales step tersely, but bow to darkness to kindness to the “ness” of everything if I stepped out of my body I would…
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the Iris
The truth of the poem startled me when I discover it layered up there with the brilliant prose and the heart-aching imagery It feels like an intruder: seated (settled really) in a darkened room of my own making it’s true though there is inherent sadness woven deeply into kindness, isn’t there? It’s the reason I…
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six-word memoir(s)
I was born an island; seeking. we all have a mother (wound.) I remember: the spilling kitchen sink : shrimp fried rice and cockroach poison : the scent of my father’s cigarettes : Department of Children and Family Services the lie I live, is true. about this writing last week I learned about…
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january 2025
1.1 today a blank page 1.2 today a wristwatch gold & clinking like my father wore 1.3 today the second walk of the year burrrr 1.4 today fog so dense it illuminates 1.5 today frosted roads and ethereal treetops…
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Merry Christmas Darling
In the shower this morning I reached for the volumizing shampoo and there you were, clear as Chrismas in my mind. And it would be weird except for it’s December and tomorrow’s the 25th so, you know- you’re around. I decided beneath the steady stream of hot city water and rising subtle steam to sing…
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Hospitable
I don’t think she’s dying At least not in the ways we think she is I think she’s letting us go Softly, surely putting some distance between herself and the human race one raging wildfire, one war torn country, one (L)Awful Democrazy at a time She does not need us not the way(s) we need…
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ars poetica
is not coming in the door from an early morning walk with a paused podcast in your ear about anonymous people’s experiences with paranormal activity and leaving a voice memo for your sister-cousin because she’s clairvoyant and needs to listen to this last story about the woman who brought spirits home with her from Vietnam…
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portals ::
he cannot bear itthe thought of himself young & curious, unfinishedrefuses even to look at what he dare create before he understood what he understands so effortlessly now –and so this under ripe version of this beautiful man & his brilliant mind sits buried and stillworth less somehow to him now. our differing opinions surprise…
santos scribes 