Saturday, March 19, 2011

a name

a know-nothing non-something,
a song, a back-slap,
a tree without sap.
crowned with ceremony
and melancholia-
a whistle, a snap.

a marriage of two curtains,
initials-a distance-an election
a combination of letters,
matches faceless reflection
that becoming broken glass performs
a mother-father-less C-section.

a little girl.
a broken spine.
I don't give you yours
but you gave me mine.
this inner debate
will it ever diminish?
an ubiquitous start,
an infamous finish.
Posted by at

2 comments:

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)

Reach for the clouds. . .

Tickle your toes. . .

  • idle
    I sing a soft prayer to my hands -and I wait for them to do something.
  • Powder Room
    The one downstairs. adjacent to the hall closet, but with an achingly tiny window. the walls were "powder" blue the towels had no ...
  • Day 25
    Dick for Sylvia Plath Some will read our story, and will not understand, why I left you, so selfishly At your most uncomfortable. I really w...
  • Labyrinth of Memory
    I know now. After the 17th time I've been through here. that I was always lost and always beautiful. My true reflection was always hidde...
  • On being a woman
    I They blame the headaches on hair pulled too tight They blame the heartaches on the six hour flight But me- with scraped knees I know the t...
  • upon waking
    all is up. a dreamy boy fills your legs with such a torso- he acts like your tongue is hard candy- and the crust in your eyes is cinnamon.
  • boom
    did someone die, today? most likely. isn't that a difficult thing? was someone born, today? most likely. isn't that a difficult thin...
  • the right age
    Do you feel like you are ripe at the right old age that you are? Remember when an hour didn't take forever? 6 hours would melt away like...
  • Scream
    I do not dare be secretive in my art, in my words, I want everything I say to ooze love to all, like a pearl-less oyster onto thirsty sand. ...
  • small stones
    July 7th the face of a rose deflates our windowsill- not much of a garden. July 8th after the party- a painting is crooked I think someone d...

Poets United Contributor