Category: Poetry
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24 Aug: A Six Sentence Poem
His Pulse (a Six Sentence Poem) The brush is a nerve,an extensionof the tremor in his soul. He does notthink of sunsetsor heartbreak. His eyesclosed,his minda silent white room,a peg in the wall of memoryholding fragmentshe cannot trust. It is only muscle —the memory in his own arm,it guides the brushstrokes,a twitch becomes a river,a…
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23 Aug: Journal of Thoughts
The Hunger Policy Fury is too small a word. This is a grief that scorches the throat. A silent, screaming void where bread should be. This is not nature’s neglect — it is a calculated, man-made hunger. A policy written in empty bowls and skeletal frames. A scream with no echo. I will always give…
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22 Aug: Not the Whole Bone
This Is Not the Whole Bone One ear pressedto the city’s ribs.Asleep in the moment of almost: almost safe,almost seen,almost loved, before almostswallowed me whole. I curl into print,a parody of rest,and dream ofstars, not just holesin a beggar’s blanket. But here,where shadows bend,I keep countof what refuses to end. In this kingdom of almost,I…
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20 Aug: MicroDosing 100 µg
What Remains When the River Leaves The boy’s blue balloon escaped at the fair, and for three days it floated—over wheat fields, a highway slick with rain, the chimney where it bobbed, hesitant, in the rising heat. On the fourth day, it settled in the branches of a winter-bare oak. A crow pecked it once.…
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18 Aug: Aetherskein – The Liturgy
16 of 27 (Aetherskein) – The Poem – (The Fragment from the Unseen Loom) 16 of 27 The Liturgy for AetherskeinThe Book of 27, Fragment: The Unseen Loom I. The ThreadNot coincidence—a conspiracy of grace.Aetherskein glints where you almost look,where the light bends just so,where the crow drops the same coinin three cities,in three lifetimes,into…
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18 Aug: After the Sway of Summertime
Louis Armstrong’s Ghost is on the Porch Swing(a poem after the sway of Summertime) Heat drips like honeyfrom the sleepy F of the trumpet,your hips unspoolinga blue notebetween a screen door slamand a cricket hymn. Piano keys stickto the backs of your knees,while a bass line digs a gravefor all the unlived livespooling in your…
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The Old Woman With No Cat
How to Lick Stamps Properly (An Old Woman’s Bedtime Lesson for her granddaughter) TO BEGIN: the old woman hands her granddaughteran envelope,its corner waiting for a stamplike a tiny, thirsty tongue. “watch closely,” she says,and licks the glue—not too much (that’s obedience),not too little (that’s doubt),but just enoughto make the King’s profilewink. the crow caws…
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16 Aug: Journal of Thoughts
Why Were the Protesters Mostly 55 and Older? Last weekend’s UK marches were filled not with students or twenty-somethings, but with people aged 55 and up. Why? It’s a question that cuts to the marrow of generational difference. Those raised in the 1950s and ’60s carry protest in their bones — rebellion was the air…
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16 Aug: We’ve Misplaced Friday Again
For days when reality misplaces itself and the crows are only too happy to explain why. We’ve Misplaced Friday Again Then let’s be thievesof child-logic today.Let’s pocket the gravel sparkles,argue with cloudsuntil they huff into rabbits. Let’s declare our shadowsvery good listeners(even when they yawn).Let’s whisper the wildest poems —and kneel in the grass to…
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15 Aug: MicroDosing 150 µg
The Keeper of Lost Things – Micro-dosing 150µg (150 words) The drawer was narrow, oak-lined, and smelled of camphor and the kind of winters people used to name. Inside: a brass key, a single pearl earring, and a postcard from Marseille—unsigned, unclaimed. Each morning, Mrs. Havelock touched them with care, her fingers reading their weight…
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