surely

molded to a dress, to a belief,
to an event, and to a legacy.

from the outside, a statue
of perfection, but on the inside

surely

butterflies flutter out of control

however fueled by certain conviction
in a vow, she would not waiver.

because her vow lasts longer
than a moment.

revolution

once around

all the gears are in motion
lubricated against grinding
so the sound of creation
is cool. you can hear the hum.

once again

the gears are getting older.
with every revolution
they lose some of their iron
and the teeth don't fit as neatly together.

once around again

the pieces don't fit well enough
to justify them any more
so they are replaced by new,
younger pieces.

and the revolutions begin anew. repeating themselves. around. and around again.

write poetry, heal

heart rate rounder

fit to the flow
fix to the follow up
lips up
close
closer


heart rate running
rampant
risk of failure
rumbling in your chest
churn
churning


don't take your time
speed up
stretch
the lips
until they touch


heart
beat
met

on Los Angeles

kale and avocado crazy;
it's in the ice cream,
on every plate;
and all the cats here
work for the cops.

happy loneliness (6/29 title by Emilie Noetzel)

watching your favorite reality tv show

dressing purely for comfort, screw fashion

eat the whole thing

with your hands

and laugh when you say "excuse me" out of habit.

theft

Stolen from _fernbeds_
https://instagram.com/p/4f6SazBRwg/?taken-by=_fernbeds_

 

take the carcass of the thief
dismantled as it ever was

stolen from the nests of albatross
and plover for structure among weaker fibers

take the chance encounter
with the larger birds

to bring home the bones of a wasted life
that was coveted none the lesser

fore the value of any other
it is relative to the life and the one living it

but you can't explain that to the birds

pride.

just a bit of Jack

albatros

is the albatross a brave bird
or just a big one?

does it eat whatever it wants
or whatever it can find?

it's june already??

no wait... june is almost over already!!

the boundary of envy

we cross the river again
murky with sludge
and banked by stagnant pools

the net cast is catching it all
the slime and filth
the lies and dead fish

to the other side
looking back we notice
our selves in different shapes

the eyes matching
the lips curling down
the reflections staring back

our time is over
to look back, now
we must press forward

to the valley
where wolves await
starving for meat

to the valley
where we will find
ever more and more

different versions of our selves
as we shed each layer
at each boundary

unfinished

projects piling up, unfinished.
attentions thwarted, distracted.


this is a summary of me, of my work.
to detail it all would take too long, and I may never finish it.

always and forever (5/29 title by Meaghan Hughes)

from http://www.juvenile-in-justice.com/ o

I am over and over
I reoccur.




my wounds have their own scars
my tattoos have stories.




I cannot speak
I only repeat.




until the thin skin that protects me
haunts me. That itch never goes.




it's here and here and here.
it hurts.




over and over. And I scratch.
and the itch remains.




and I start over.
again. I reoccur.




always.
and over and over and forever.

If I was everything you thought I was (4/29 title by Nicole McLemon)

everything I am, you know,
you thought you knew.

from pearls to pointe
with curls and curves

and minty fresh retorts
to your boring anecdotes

i am everything you know
and i am more

than you could ever imagine.

Lemon Wednesday (3/29 title by the staring man)

http://jeffhayesfinearts.blogspot.com/2015/03/print-peeled-lemon.html


the stitch stings
like lemon juice
in a paper cut
on a cloudy Wednesday
when no one is in the mood
to give any sympathy
and spans the length
of my entirety

Yeast. Bees? Geese. (2/29 title by Evan)

Part 1: Yeast.

... don't give my any of your
nano-brewery bullshit

it was made in a bathtub
wasn't it?

Part 2: Bees?

... those aren't sweaters, that's...
just the color of their fur.

... or whatever.  fuzz.  i don't
know what bees are made of, do i?

Part 3: Geese.

feathers and monocles.  right.
and nick frost is going to jump

right out of this whoopee pie
that is really some cake

in the shape of cookies
sandwiched around... stuff.

nothing to do with pie.



stop looking at me.

luscious frustration (1/29 title by Daniella)

the way your whole heart warms up
at the sight of him, making stupid faces

at a friendly stray cat
when he doesn't know you're watching.

fun, cute, you think you can do the same
so you make a stupid face at him

and the only reply is a scowl
when you know he can be just as dumb

and fun as you want him to be.

but stray cats get all the looks.

Poetry Month

I am not participating in any special poetry month projects.  That's not a very good reason why I shouldn't try to write more this month than my recent normal amount. 

Poetry forthcoming. 

the pull through

watching a fat cat
pull itself through


a tiny space.

dark river

our feet tucked in socks and winter boots
slipping on rocks

algae covered and eroded
the smooth surfaces, no edges,

left nothing to grab
but each other

as we clumsily crossed the dark river
from one galaxy, snow covered and bare

to the one we will conquer
and warm with the blood of our foes.


 

[inspired by the dark river]

the sun

one cannot trust the sun
as bright and beautiful
as she shines

to look upon her
is to turn your eyes
into liquid gold

burnt forever
by her stunning visage
blinded by her light

and overcome
by her beauty
her radiance

her wrath.

in the dream

in the dream
i was brave enough

and strong enough
to hold him down

but when i woke
i could not even reach him

and you'll never guess

a funny little brown book
wrapped shut with leather twine
the same color as the book

and on every page
is just

one

word.

the secrets to the universe
written in a funny little book

one word per page.

and you'll never guess how many pages
in that funny little brown book,

because that

is a secret.

long back

the mess of stitches
that make the matador's costume
so elegant in appearance

 the gold and the teal

fitted tightly

powerful

are not revealed to the spectator

the same way the mess of stitches
that make up his wife's troubled heart

cannot be seen by anyone looking in

elegant, she waits

end of the weekend

the groceries were stored away in cupboards and containers

decaffeinated sodas in cans littering the small table
alongside empty plates where enchiladas once laid

he plays a colorful shoot-em-up
while she rests her head on a shoulder

reading the alchemist, sucking on a candy cane
stolen from the Christmas tree, doomed to come down

this time next week.

the death of Harriet

this is not one of those stories about Harriet, whom everyone knows.  rather, here is the story, the mystery, if you will, of how a Welshman and a well bred Canadian met in a dilapidated café under a bridge in the city of London.

it was a white-box, a pop up, it was under a bridge in London.  the sort of little café tourists only end up in when they're lost or it's raining the sort of rain it rains in December when thousands are out doing their holiday shopping.  heavy.

the tea served so hot that no one left with all the taste buds they came in with.  and not the sort of place you usually find a handsome Welshman dressed in a tailored suit with a matching coat, nor a woman in pearl studs and shiny brown pumps.  certainly not one as fine as her, not Canadian anyway.

so it was hard for them not to notice one another, of course.

he was opening tiny milk packets and sugar packets and pouring them into his foam cup.  packet after packet trying to mask the taste of burnt tea.  a head nod to the lovely young lady.

a smile.

then a turn.  among half a dozen strangers, she cried.  openly.  weeping.  a damsel in unabashed distress in such a way that only a finely dressed Canadian woman could get away with in a dingy London café under a bridge in the rain.  it may not have been raining. 

so he comforted her, naturally.  handing her tissues and there-there-ing her. 

that's how they met, you see.  it must have been 2006, the year that Harriet died.  but we still don't know how the Welshman and the Canadian ended up in the same café in London, or why the tea tasted so burnt yet people still paid 98p for it.

it is estimated that Harriet was 175 years old by then, yet even of that we are not so sure.

the mudroom

the mudroom
became a sea of flowers
spanning the color spectrum

and just as the delivery truck left, a small brown rabbit appeared

followed by a tired man in pajamas
who poured himself a mug of tea

and gazed across the sea of color
only to find his wife, trapped on the other side
of the tiny room
meant for dirty shoes and umbrellas.