ardor cuts into the soles of my feetblood stirring as I run to the sealeaves of green grow from each fingerseaweed flowing from my head in curls To finish reading, please go to SpillWords Press NYC. If you enjoy this new piece, which I am so honored to have published by the staff at SpillWords, please press…
Category: loss
The cliffs of moher
leaves of many colors mingle to dispersea steaming bowl of porridge to feed the craving earthrain turns directions, as limestone clenches sea flowersour love flying with the peregrine falcons by the cliffs of moherusing night writing, molds of movement, on the blanket we once did share
compulsive
counting, countingdoing daily safety checksexhaustion visiting eyes of seven God ignoring pleas to go to heaven tiptoeing, tiptoeingever aware of sleeping beastglass floors cracking under toeswhile nervous fingers are picking nose
Butterflies Bloom
tonight I whisperto the scarthat lolls uponmy shoulderyou are but amere fragmentof my flesh covering youwith star dustyour powerseveredonly an artlessreminder oferas past petals weavelove on frayedtraces of griefhummingbirdskiss my templeslove emergesa butterfly she flies awaydistance windssing her nameoh creatureof peacecome nowlet me love you
A Life of Jazz and Love
do you remember biting my bottom lipwe consumed one another bit by bit you asked me if I loved you just a little rubbing my smell on your hat, I played you like a fiddle lifting me in the air with your armsI drank a bottle full of your charms I look in the mirror at…
Sunday’s Hay Field
sadness is a raw wound wrapped in bandagesliving in the thought of a picnic without dancing antsa family carrying a basket with lost Sundays and sandwiches listening to the radio, pretending to dancebitter the old man who can no longer stand to eat corntoothless, he remembers the river swallowing a closing glance his son,…
Without An Anchor At Sea
tethered to you, my darling, like a fragile marionettesilk strings made from worms gathering their blue emotionslonging for an overdue petrichor, I yearn for a divine cloud burstmy anchor, yet your strength vacillates floating, sending me out to seastill, after all these years, you do not identify with my mournful delicate marrowjoyful, gardenia scented summer…
Cleansing Rain
blood drips from my heartmy silk gown grows thornsblinded by yellow from the start drowning in my own skinflowers grow from fingersa vase of emotions growing thin angry at God, I fall downanother day lily dies slowtears become an ocean of sound my cart is deep with painbrands of scentless sorrownaked, I await the cleansing…
My Gladiator
This piece is dedicated to and inspired by the fragrance writer, the poet who can find any scent you or your beloved enjoys. In the days of the Roman Gladiators, their natural scents were collected and sold as expensive perfume for rich patrons. in her white stola, she hummed by the lone gladiator gate,sixty…