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Tag Archives: this poem poems
this poem is a tightly wound spring. she’s a taut wound caught up in clacked-black things. she’s got unspoken broken and unscattered seed, unpolished corners and unmet needs. she’s a wayward kite on a fragile string. let’s unwind her now, and let her sing. Lill’s given us a fun … Continue reading
, this poem is not:that red(wheelbarrow) red rose, or a summer’s day, or some weird wild ecstasy over a Grecian urn. it’s not walking in beauty nor on the road less taken or through some godforsaken woods (in snow, or otherwise). it’s not counting the ways or the breaths or the deaths … Continue reading
she’s a blank sheet, waiting. a quiet screen longing to scream. some black-throne keys to clack, attack the day. she’s smudge on snow, you know. a black blinking portal door signaling for more (words, phrases,time.) she is paper ghost haunting every smoky line. she’s … Continue reading
ok, so this is ’bout to be just ’bout da best poem you ever did see, soon as i get me muse awaked. soon as I get these fingers shaked just right, soon as the light slants on the page, soon as i get these wars all … Continue reading
this poem is a moving tar-get, sludged-smudge scribble of a scrabbled star. she’s too far off center to make her point, dart-ing about in the dark without a true mark. she’s got one dang -ling thought caught on a linebut she’s quite … Continue reading
and we find ourselves falling into its pages tucking ourselves between stanzas as silk pillowcases. two days later we’re still here three sheets to the (whirl)wind drunk on phrase for another four days. gimme fiveminutes and i’ll tell you each rhyme-and -rhythm’d tale, … Continue reading
, this poem will answer to no one, all flailing phrase and devil -may-care. she might even leave bald spots here or there. last time she tried to get the words just right in rows and lines all cleaned and … Continue reading
… this poem wishes she was just a little longer slower stronger more open more hopin’ or maybe just closer than she appears. .. in april we poem.
.. this poem is that red, red rose that summer’s day the craving of mouth, voice, hair ………….(silent and staring) those cloudless climes and starry skies …………………….(dying, disappearing.) more thicker than forget, it’s counting the ways those moments of glad … Continue reading