Daguerreotype girls are all children,
dressed in white bows atop silky black hair,
more often than not clutching to
I was born at a county hospital,
and I never had the good grace to know what
forceps feel like on an infant head,
but I creak yet.
If I was a woman in sepia I would
clutch to a baby girl and slice my arm
with keen silver-tongued letter openers,
jab out my tired eyes with knitting needles
rather than my breathtaking rapier,
slim to deliver liquids wailing in my skin,
push the doctor out from under me,
I’d be a caretaker yet.
Daguerreotype women are stern-mouthed beauties,
but I would be hidden away high or burned
alive for a mad woman’s witchcraft,
and I more than likely wouldn’t live to see the disappointing photograph.
Incredibly gripping ending to a lovely poem. Bravo!
There are too many maybes
scattered in between the grass
as the flowers, blue and gold,
shed their petals fast.
Winter comes in an onslaught
a storm of ice blue chill
and twirling flakes of
satin white gathering onto
barren tree branches
and my long black lashes.
Empty promises fester in the frosty
soil decaying with the hope we have
for a new and beautiful spring
full of love and joy.
My fingers tingle
and my heart forgets to beat.
Winter chills out my blood
and the world turns without me.
Notes: I like the structure here and word play; rhyming that works. Also very relatable.
Your eyes are the window to your soul.
With just one look, the stories unfold.
Stories too painful to be verbally told.
A smile on your face, but that smile’s growing old.
A never ending chain that tears you apart.
Happy externally, damaged at heart.
When you begin to feel better you’re back at the start
on the same vicious cycle you reluctantly depart.
What sinking sadness overtook you, brave
prey to passage, the fell swamp, the sopping
madness, the quickening despair, your god-
flame mural licking delayed oblivion,
ten thousand hopeless miles to a vision
botching the end’s beginning?
What of the emerald bane, the dire wolf,
stalker of bankrupt heroes, mourning
at your viscid tomb, left to trod muck
heavy-hearted, his faithful tears pinging
the heaving bog’s unyielding malevolence
with tooth-attuned reverb?
What of rock-biter; lonely, empty-handed,
casting his lot to the nether, the ivory bastion;
paradigm of dream, unsung empress,
lost to void, buoying empty space,
what of safe passage for last hopes,
what of the impending nothing?
And, what did you seek in that sterile peace,
balked, as gasped lungs collapsed, fissures
leaped clean, brooks of crystal milk, pearl
apples and mares’ nuzzle, lilacs climbing
silver mountains, bare-breasted sphinxes,
a magisterial canter, lord of bison?
But what of
from the night-
do you feel
LK’s Notes: Layers of meaning and unique word vocabulary. I really like this.
no wake at all; falling deep
beyond the six o clock mountains’
somber footing, splitting
half-lives with atom precision,
lagging heavy, spinning
tales of grey curtains, mist
thick as dead people: the ones
littering themselves about, innocuously
milling, meddling affairs with
enthusiastic lethargy. tripping
heart of vengeance; night watchman,
occlude this nocturnal latency.
never mind. just never mind.
I suppose there are better things
than sleep. a hallucination
is not entirely out of question.
listen as the shades revive a hymn
audible only by discerning ear,
brave kenmoore, along untold dead
billions rapping at brimstone gate,
pleading the gulf for madness,
a shard of ice, a tincture - in one
tormented eye. heed their gnashing,
rise, strip pacifier and drown
the muse. every percolating drop.
collage shock. mutinous clues:
crudely cropped rodents and freud,
kazoos splayed like madness
probing sheetrock and guilt inasmuch,
deplorable roads to the same, dent
plunging perfunctory, a bevy; colorful,
substantive, close enough to cavort
amorously if they happen to animate,
given proper mood and lighting
adjustments. sustenance scattered
beyond waking, an ephemeral brink,
a break for frenzy, before an unflinching gaze
at the bleeding eye of dawn
crashing through the torque of night
into absolving sunlight.
I’m winging it,
Doesn’t even have a name,
First line, done,
Let’s put a comma in,
Line, line, line,
It’s not a first paragraph,
It’s a poem,
And I didn’t even notice,
I’d been writing a poem,
Instead of a novel.
Trysten’s note: This simply made me smile. I recommend reading it aloud.
S’s Note: I really love this. How lovely.
Natalie walks through the mind like silk curtains,
Holding a smouldering kindle of cancer,
Smiling eyes on this girl are unheard of.
Natalie could be an excellent dancer,
If only her legs would move just a tad quicker,
If only her life was a little more fair,
She’d stop getting lonelier, sadder and sicker,
And wear flowers and lace in her hair.
side note: I saw this and thought ‘YES!’ because it captures love so effortlessly. The overwhelming collection of emotions that you feel can never quite be portrayed enough to the other person.
i want to
i’m not sure
but my heart
Side note: I can’t believe that this doesn’t have more notes.
i get chills
about it now
is a deadly game
we used to play
my heart lay
lonely at the
lost and found
but not sought after
in a fucked up
the sea is filled
but they never
their all dead
luckily she’d lost
and came looking
i’m not sure she
came for me,
she found what was