A poem is an equation written on the wind, riding on memory from one seer to the next, ancient as the spoken word. I can see the last of the species scribbling away in a feverish dream as the sun burns the ground, furnace in the lungs, every color flooding the mind, recalled in silence. […]
Oh my lady with waves of red,Thoughts of you race through my head. A heart of gold cloaked in snow, The fallen angel who lost your glow. Taken from you through devil’s rage, Soul entrapped in unyielding cage. Lured in by lover’s tender kiss, Betrayed by love in a secret tryst. Driven by pain and drunken mourn,Once again pricked by
I wake With death in my mouth. Before I wash it out, I start with Ten reasons why I cannot take my own life. One–Suicide is selfish, Especially for you. You help so many people. What would they do Without you? Two–Who else Can make Algebra fun? All your students need you. Three–Who would get
In the darkness of your broken nightlight, you whispered stories to yourself until you fell asleep. Ogres and wolves were all that haunted your dreams. Monsters were slain with swords and tricks by a hero, clever and brave, quick on his feet, everything you were supposed to be. You shot up like a beanstalk, left
The scrape of laughter fills the bar & preying, prying eyes behind shot glasses leer as she ventures in— dainty fingers quiver, holding a virgin pen. She signs then passes to a confident meaty hand & a variegated band of voices begins to create a list. She stands, goes first— steps over snickers to stage
Day six dawned breathingwords echoing nightfallThe reverb cut clean. *** Art Credit: Reverb by Tamara Spence