Saturday, June 27, 2020

Stupefied, I Hope

My skull is spilling
familiar disappointment,
but my heart still hopes
your thoughts are just stupefied
not all empty of feeling.


photo by Nick Fewings, on Unsplash

 for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #26: “You can make anything by writing”). Really, writing is magic… we can make with our brains, hearts, and fingers.

Saturday, June 20, 2020

Of Your Twilight, the Darkness

Shadows can’t be without light, just like me. Without you, twisting my limbs in our secret garden of little deaths, I can’t find the self that makes me. In the Solstice of my tale, you are Sun: growth and blaze and life and the rest. I know you fear full night—I taste the truth in words you touch to my lips, in caresses you banter to keep, in every rebel gasp my voice rips out of that bit in your mind you’ve wished didn’t whole who you are…

let me be the heart
of your twilight, the darkness
balancing the light

photo by Shyam, on Unsplash
  - for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #25: Summer Solstice)  

Wednesday, June 17, 2020

When All Else Fails, I Garden

Soothing magic grows
in the blush of strawberries,
the gift of rain, a pretty mushroom.

Aggravation spreads
when souls forget what matters—
fresh soil, random smiles, happiness shared.

Plant some good.


for Poets and Storytellers United 

Saturday, June 13, 2020

Between Asphyxiation and a Life-giving Breath

Some days are the darkest,
most twisted and unfriendly
of forests spawning barriers
between asphyxiation and a life-
giving breath. Others
(the ones we cherish and turn
into blood-food), those days
gleam through bare branches
in winter, singing
home a promise
of brighter springs,

singing
home a promise
of brighter springs.


find more of @flipsphotos19’s work on Instagram
 for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #24: Mr. Frodo, I Do Understand)

Saturday, June 6, 2020

Self-Discipline in the Face of Selective Ignorance

She says, “I envy the way you feel only what you want, the way the world never boils in the inside of your bones. It must be liberating not to need to rage aloud.”

And I just watch her… and wonder, how many decibels of self-involvement does it take to grow deaf enough to unhear the growls of self-discipline that constantly remind me not to snap in the face of selective ignorance?

“Really,” her tongue goes on and on, brain still on mute, “you’re so lucky.”

“Yes,” I say, taking a few breaths, reminding myself who I am and why I am, “I am lucky.” In my head, I add, Lack of luck would’ve left the skin of my knuckles on your teeth. And who needs that sort of filth in their hands?


Perhaps finally sensing the mood feeding my tone, she smiles an unsure smile. And I hope a little.
photo by Geran de Klerk, on Unsplash

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