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Picking Up Shiny Things: a winter day

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Thursday, January 06, 2011. Morning breaks, cut-glass bright and rife with winter. Birds I hear the stars shift just beneath the day’s blue. Façade, a whisper as silvery as the icy creek’s refrain. I miss the umber twilight, the grackles penciled in, charcoal. And sepia suggestions of movement. It is too keen,. This early light with shadows as sharp as calligraphy. There remain no pine swept paths, no sugar-sand ways. Where sea oats bow. There is only macadam and limestone,. Posted by Sea Dream Studio.

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Picking Up Shiny Things: Anne, who would be queen

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Wednesday, March 23, 2011. Anne, who would be queen. Oh, that I might be tidy, sky blanched,. Fields ribboned, trees skinned of bark. But all is a-jumble, tangled and on fire. Your fox-grin is torn away by a gust. I am left to imagine your chattering jaw. If I were neat you would be buried. Behind the flat stones, courted. By cockroach and pin-light. But you are a shattered goblet, here. And there, sharp and eager for flesh. My shelves are rife with such stories,. Spines rotten and pages loose.

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Picking Up Shiny Things: brief

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Monday, April 04, 2011. I found the blue one on the bottom of the cage,. Dead in the way that only birds can be,. A feathered husk. It weighed no more. Than the memory of an unremarkable day. I might have worn it on a thread, an ornament. Of sky and sad curled feet. Things die. We are such unheeded orphans, afterthoughts. At best. Our histories are barely mounds. Upon the earth’s resilient back. Our stories. Find no audience. The long nights consume. The heart, the heft of bone, the light. The cost of war.

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Picking Up Shiny Things: nineteen

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Tuesday, October 26, 2010. I would offer up the violet cords. That twine my wrists, the knobby arc. Of my sleeping spine, the nakedness. Of my greed. Oh, pillow and moon,. Light severed by reeds, at night I wish. For impossible things. Coyotes run. Like starlings on the wind, yet I remain. Astonished by the rush of seasons. I would, you know, even now,. Open my hands in honesty, forget. The reasons and regrets. If I could. Breathe again the river would sweep. The song from my mouth and all.

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Picking Up Shiny Things: December 2008

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Friday, December 05, 2008. Boundaries collapse within my fist,. Crushed like ancient lace. When I lift my hand to the wind. It is sacred to watch. Them sough the air with immunity. I have not finished the bletted quince. I am waiting for time to reveal. The hues of this fisted apple. The door is peeling now. The paint. Has given up its desire to oversee. The small leavings of this house. Has it been months, already. Since I came inside , since the orchard. Bloomed and scattered velvet. The cost of war.

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Picking Up Shiny Things: remains

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Wednesday, March 23, 2011. The bones of your dory rest under the pines. Untouched since last August,. She gathers webs and shadows. She should be long done, painted, varnished,. Graceful in the bay. The wood sits beneath the sky,. Bears the sun and moon, the rain. The wind hums through her,. For your hands to finish her. Posted by Sea Dream Studio. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). View my complete profile. This is my President. Sea Dream Studio Shop. The cost of war. Johannes Linstead enchanting music.

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Picking Up Shiny Things: June 2010

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Wednesday, June 23, 2010. I am not writing about the storms. Of May, or sparrows’ wings folded. Like empty gloves, nor how. The constellations seem as stark. As sequins on a dark skirt. I offer, instead, this letter that reveals. The pale skin of my shoulders. It builds. No bridges for gaps in time, tenders. No apology for embellishments. Scattered like petals and ash. An observant reader knows. To plumb the white space. The back story is the one. That breathes and shudders. Like a woman. I am saying.

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Picking Up Shiny Things: Autumnal

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Saturday, October 02, 2010. October is a door I am thrust through,. A maw that gapes before me, all bittersweet. And acorn shades. Some think it lovely,. But I do not. I see its hunger for all. That is alive, from leaf to ruddy flesh. It longs to dress the hills and glades. With garish hues and coffin mounds. The air bears a bouquet of sorrow. The grackles bear it up on ragtag wings. And span the fire laced sunset. With their omens and harsh cries. Memory comes as a conjurer, clever. This is my President.

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Picking Up Shiny Things: On reading poetry

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Monday, December 06, 2010. Master of pot lids-. Clatter, sing, and snivel. You think yourself bigger somehow. When you stand on sheets of paper,. Arms sticking out of the windows. Of a very small house. You prissy poet, with one trick. Reincarnated ad nauseum,. I would know your smear. In a bucket of snot. I have eaten your words. After you, the regurgitated. Strophe, a bowl of lukewarm mush,. Staccato verses caught in my throat. The tapeworm of your prosy proclivity. Burrows in my belly. The cost of war.

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Picking Up Shiny Things: October 2010

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Tuesday, October 26, 2010. I would offer up the violet cords. That twine my wrists, the knobby arc. Of my sleeping spine, the nakedness. Of my greed. Oh, pillow and moon,. Light severed by reeds, at night I wish. For impossible things. Coyotes run. Like starlings on the wind, yet I remain. Astonished by the rush of seasons. I would, you know, even now,. Open my hands in honesty, forget. The reasons and regrets. If I could. Breathe again the river would sweep. The song from my mouth and all. Though, is a ...