poetry is not words on a page or sounds in the ear but souls talking to other souls Published in Winamop. Featured image by Suzy Hazelwood from Pexels.
a Monarch settles on a spider milkweed withdrawing sap with suction-tube tongue for two of the minutes of our lives that remain we sit content to silently watch Published in Winamop. Featured image by Tinthia Clemant from Pexels.
You call me honey alcohol turned vinegar in your tone as you flop on the bed naked. I hate that word now hate the rankness of your body in sleep hate that all we are is short bursts of intimacy surrounded by long periods of separation hate the charred bones that are all that’s left […]
I introduce myself to you each time I visit each day your memories become ever smaller as neurons die leaving bitter holes in their place you fight the ravaging of your brain, and even as your skin presses your ribs, suffocating you, your body remembers it is made of stardust hydrogen formed into helium crushed […]
For years I tried to put flames to the boy engulfed in desperate need of shelter from the bitter barked contempt of his father’s regular rage. His roiling heat of alcoholic acid scalded everything I tried to be leaving me drowning in quinine tears. Then one day the sun wrapped its arms around me slowly […]
the dictum that to write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric does not mean we can no longer write poetry rather than a verdict intended to silence poets it is a call to reject the bibble-babble that ignores the complicity of a culture of homogeneity that excludes otherness poetry must do more than inform […]
The Shoah began not with the gas chambers but with crimes of indifference conspiracies of silence and distorted lies black as Schutzstaffel uniforms. Now anti-Semitic crimes rise like the ashes of burnt bodies from Nazi crematoriums and white supremacists march screaming “Jews will not replace us!” Deuteronomy tells us to guard ourselves and our souls […]
when I die bears will still go through cabins when nobody is home and ducks in circling flight will still come and drowse on warm sand silhouetted in the long shadows of sunset when I die there will still be smells of damp hay cattle lazy under a summer sky and cars will still swish […]
Let me fold into you, sliding over crinkles and under creases, slipping into secret places, making origami hearts. Published in Winamop. Featured image by Miguel Á. Padriñán from Pexels.
A million flagellated me’s seek one singular you; me ecstatic, you egg static love epitomized. Published in Winamop. Featured image license – Creative Commons Zero – CC0.