writing poetry
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Old cards
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≻: Old cardsA pilgrimage through words no longer meantFor me, I rifled through old cards and envelopesAnd felt vulgar and voyeuristic, ogling…
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The Muse
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≻: The MusePain is a special kind of fuel, even back in the happier Days. The words that have dried up for monthsHave…
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Letting go
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≻: Letting goThe weight of sadness can be consolidated into one whole box of Wet scrunched up 2-ply tissue, two soaked pillowcases, and…
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I have allowed myself to peer into a future and that was my great mistake.
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≻: I have allowed myself to peer into a future and that was my great mistake.To imagine a room of sloping sun, lighting a faceThat I’ll hold and marvel, at your long lashes orFragments of…
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A Year
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≻: A YearEarly morning, it is threatening rain outside.I unfold a little piece of you; I bring it close,Imagine your ending day,…
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I know why poets write about spring
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≻: I know why poets write about springThe birds are here (the birds are here!) on the melting ice standing around like lawyers in orange vests with…
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