Category: Poetry
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14 Aug: A Slow Detonation
A Slow Detonation I. Imprisoned Stone frames a freedomthat swallows every horizon whole.Iron teeth bite shut the sky,keeping light’s whispers out.Here, the freedom is absence,and absence is forever. II. A Slow Detonation Poem Power is the liethat fits their fist, that names the bruisenecessary. That tells the wound —this is right. Their boots don’t care.March.March…
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12 Aug: Featherhung – The Liturgy
15 of 27 Featherhung – The Poem – The Fragment: Unfinished Flight I. The Almost-ForgivenNot a wound, but its afterglow —an ash-rose stain between them,where Brigid’s silence hooks Felreil’s wingand his ink pools flat at her feet.They circle the unspoken,two crows with the same bone in their beaks. II. The Crooked LandingA word tilts mid-air:You…
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12 Aug: dVerse Quadrille #229
Last Laugh of a Dandelion That little flower refused to shut up —jabbering of moon-drunk alley cats,tomorrow’s lost socks,and how the dark craves mischieflike a thief craves silvered moonlight.“Hush,” I pleaded, but it only laughed,“I’m a dandelionwho refuses to be a weed.” Soundtrack note: “Some flowers gossip in moonlight, some in mercy — either way,…
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8 Aug: Wind’s Own Language
Wind’s Own Language I hated blackberries as a child—snakes in the grass,thorns whispering your blood back to you,wasps guarding sweetness like secrets. Grandmother’s in the kitchen, stirring blackberries in a copper pot. Special wooden spoon, stained a deep bruised purple. Clockwise to stir in wishes; stirring berries into jam. Into dye. Wine. Now I eathalf…
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7 Aug: Grief Is the Hook
Grief Is the Hook On this pew, I sit.Wood remembersmy child-bones, my grandmother’s norse-tongue,the holy hushshe split like kindling. Walls are whitewashed. Salt in the mortar.Elder gods’ runes live in this God’s house. In the door’s header, in the walls and floor.ᛉ Algiz (life),ᚷ Gebo (love),ᚦ Thurisaz (lightning’s fork). Old views. Rippled glass.Bubbled panes lick…
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6 Aug: Gravity Is Its Own Language
This poem remembers a bicycle ride this week beneath Nordic sun, and the moment I left my grandmother’s ring in the creek beside her old house. I wore it on my thumb one heedless summer as a child. It was time to release and return it. Gravity is its own language — and the land…
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5 Aug: The Year I Knew
Note: I braved Brenda’s Sunday Whirl . It is a challenge, for sure — her 12 words this week are: souvenirs, free, touch, know, cracks, siren, window, waves, sting, show, ring and give. I have based this poem on memories from my summers in Sweden, where I am at the moment. The photo (taken today) is of a…
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25 July: Same Old Skin
Same Old Skin — (after a song by Asaf Avidan – My Old Pain) The willowweepsbut notfor me.(fucking willow —danceslike a noose.) It bendsfor windsI cannotsee.(wind.it ripsthe skyfrom its ownmouth.) I wear my achelike leather worn —(torn,cracked,smilingthrough itsseams.)This old skin with teeth at my throat. I’m a hull splintered where ropes once called me —useful.(It…
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25 July: Journal of Thoughts
Where the Heart Goes Then, without warning, the sky splits its seams,dumping light like stolen jewels,and we gulp the calm,foolish as sailorskissing the shorethat will betray them again. Happiness is a spider’s bridge,spun between gunshots. And still the heart—ever the fugitive—steals into the next verse,into the next stranger’s mouth,into the next wardisguised as lullaby. It…
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22 July: Journal of Thoughts
A Chip, We Cried The French cried “Mais non! We made pommes frites!” But history winced and called them twits.For Belgium fried the golden wand,In oil so deep, so rich, so fond. They claimed the name, those saucy Gauls,While Britons munched in seaside stalls.“A chip,” we cried, “not frites, you fool!”Then wrapped them hot in…
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