I sing a soft prayer to my hands
-and I wait for them to do something.
Tickle your toes. . .
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wide-eyed and curious, he peeks from his shell with seaweed speckles, where 8 monarch butterflies landed permanently. he puts his footing on...
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Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
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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.
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RICK: Hey Rick? DICK: Yea, Dick? RICK: See that sky roll on by? (points) DICK: ...Oh, my... RICK: Don't i-t'almost makes yer wanner.... -
in the shadowy enclave- you see fireflies. I see stars.
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there is a small leaf over your eye and yet you can still see me.
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Recently I have been really attempting to delve into what it means to be a poet. Jim Morrison once wanted to be a poet, and look where it go...
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driving home from the farmer's market- I can't see anything- through this storm- I come home to sleep- with you-rest in your arms fu... -
Out the window, I thought I saw Emily pale, gawking. a green T-shirt. bouncing firey springs on her head.
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strange tree, your flowers look like badminton birdies.
Poets United Contributor
you sound calm, at least from here.!
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