ForetoldI told you beforeyou remember that timewe did that thingwell, this is like that No, this is not like that at all Forewarnedyou were told beforeso where are your arms?bare in the winter wind,unguardeddefenses down for the count The news is disarming anyway Remember cracking openthe fortune cookieand reading something tellingon the slip inside:“the bestContinue reading “Prophecy”
Tag Archives: time
Absalom
Faulkner is a heavy weight of old grievancesunresolved, the fester of yearsburning an indignant holein a pocket full of rusty nailsthe bitter smell left upon thefingers that reach insidea taste like blood on the tongue It’s my Mother’s words about the familyhow her Daddy was the twin born lastseparated by mere momentsfrom the seat ofContinue reading “Absalom”
Rush
my neighbor cut down his treeafter it fell into his fence during a stormso now I can see the sky as I lie in bedthe clouds are moving fastin a hurry to end this hot dry month from the bald stump,the tree is pushing back upwith a quickness, a thousand saplingsrising from the one oldContinue reading “Rush”
Fog
The night fogdampens soundweighs it downso it can’t riseto tap at thewindow pane orwhisper shoutin my ear The night fogturns normal nineinto mysterious midnightsecretsbreathing onthe glass toexpose ghostwriting leftbehind byunseen fingersletters lingeringin the dustfor time to find The night foghides darknessand throws backlight, a shockof gloss throughthe frosted mistthat fightsthe odds topoint the wayforward JustContinue reading “Fog”
September
Cleopatra rolled up in a rugsmuggled in to see Caesarworming her way into infamyEvery day the light is changingSlyly summer transformslittle by little into autumnsuch small moveswe hardly even notice the fall I realize it’s not quite the right time of year for this poem, but my copy-paste-repeat diligence from my Medium archive knows noContinue reading “September”
Breath
The wind will shift from south to north again
as the earth tilts her way along the year
and my breath will enter the tapestry
as I weave my own way along, in time.
Autumn (45)
n this fading comes regeneration
(even the most robust things must sleep)
so the trees light up with celebration
while within the soil their roots stretch out deep. . . .
The Poetry Patio 