Category Poetry

Duct Tape

Today, I decided to stop Duct taping my sides together. Holding guts inside Became too painful.   First, my lungs expanded Air rushed sweet into New distance My ribs no longer bound breath So when you gently touched hair Straying across my face, the wind did not stop, Continued filling my chest Blessing each breath   Second, each step Essential with connection, Your presence, humming electric, Illuminated fascia, connective tissues

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Get the Message

A poem is an equation written on the wind, lasting only for as long as the memories that transmit it from one seeker to the next. The poet is an ego-driven chronicler writing to be remembered while claiming that the message is what matters most, despite the fact that the message hasn’t changed since the advent of the printed word, or longer. I can imagine the last of the species

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Saying goodbye to you Is like saying goodbye to my reflection Every morning after careful inspection Of each line and wrinkle I will forget I have Throughout the course of the day Seeing you unexpectedly Is like electrons sparking off a copper plate There’s no debate We had a connection And electric charge Discharging perfection Before morning came and The bright whites of your eyes Beheld dialects of destruction The

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Midnight Creatures

Last night, the wind in the branches interrupted our dreams. We held each other alone and silent,  free from all the other dreamers who kept their own secrets buried in the dark. The midnight creatures prowled beyond our walls, their subtle noises delivering us from thought, and after the atoms struck the void, we let them lull us back to sleep.

An Old Stone Savage Speaks

A Response to Frost’s “Mending Wall” Sorry I weren’t in a talking mood when we was fixing the wall. I was pretty wore out from helping Hiram cut stove wood after his boy sawed off his hand and died and my son’s wife run off again. Don’t think Amy ever will git over losing that baby. But I don’t like to go on about it. You’ve had your own troubles.

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Buppy and Benny: In Memoriam

The day of your cancer surgery Buppy Puppy went missing. Her name no longer age-appropriate for a tired old girl of 15, the days of frolicking with you on the farm were over. Uncle Harold looked all over, then declared she probably crawled under the river bluff and died, not wanting to cause a fuss while you were sick. Six years later, after Mother’s stroke, when your cancer returned, we

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