I could make my home in reverberation
but you would never let me go
So I am walking slow
into the glow
of the light beside your bed
And you are turning in your sleep
and you forget to breathe; you’re dead
(but it’s all in my head)
your life is not a museum;
it’s an archeological dig
they can order it when you’re gone
with monuments and letters carefully packaged away
but not today.
Calling all poets.
September 1 marks the start of spring, here, in Australia.
Submit your springtime poetry for the first 30 days of September and tag it “springtimeseptember”.
I shall be tracking this and at the end of it all, there shan’t be prizes. Instead, a chance to interact with new poets and read the works of others; a prize in itself.
Spread the word, wonderful writers.
there’s an ad on tv advertising soap
and i pretend i don’t see how flaky cracks spread across smooth surfaces
through the smallest of touches
what a pretty lie,
to be white and soft and beautiful in your hands
what a pretty lie i am
"Something in me vibrates to a dusky, dreamy smell of dying moons and shadows."
to find glory in pane
can you imagine what it would be like to kick back,
fling your fist in defiance in a state of
crumble the earth in your fingertips because it is a dream more vivid than god’s own—
this is semi-permenance:
tall buildings pained,
glass houses paned with heavy windows that reach to heaven only to be shattered by angels who fear their own reflections and see the devil instead like a stain,
oh, i wish i was immortal
but those who become dust and sand reflect celestial bodies
so i do not need to be.