The dream of a golden ring

Butterfly kisses

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I lie on the grass
And look up at the stars
But only in my imagination
They are so clear there
My mind works in space
Among the flotsam and infinity

I walk up and down
Heels stomping
Heavily preparing for a sleep
That may never take me
Nibbling chocolates absent-mindedly
I am suckling Read More

flotsam jetsam

When your constellation is not as it seems
it should be; like
it is for others, who speak of us and we
but don’t include me. Yet together they are
aimless, like flotsam drifting
on pulsing wavelets, further and further
out into the vast nothingness and
forever into the further
until it all breaks apart

…seems like we are drifting further and further apart.

Mad woman soothsayer

Mad woman soothsayer
says not much
thinks she speaks truth
but chain-vomits nervous
words like wasps
buzzing with angry self-righteousness
while in reality
they ask only of each other
Who do we attack?
Where is our home?
and
How do we protect the queen?

(and they seek out sugar to sweeten the deal)

Cold in the earth (after Emily Brontë)

The bare walls of her body ooze breath of cold
trapping the bones in
soft cocoon of damp flesh where the
air reeks of sodden earth —
She moans with mute numbness and
counts to fifteen
heavy with blubber she is wild
yet dead like all the Decembers
and all their frosts from
ages past until now, those
icicle mornings that turn grass blades brown
and cover the hills
with a ghostly hue and have
long since melted
into
the spring


A Golden Shovel poem based on two lines from Emily Brontë’s poem Remembrance:

Cold in the earth — and fifteen wild Decembers
From those brown hills have melted into spring: