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Clipping the obituaries, / I am very careful / not to cut / through any / of the text. / / Not even the text / of the obituaries / s
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Poetry Soup / / Note: not to be confused / with alphabet soup. / / Making soup / / is the most / / like making poetry. / / Anyone c
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My heart is a rain barrel under the eaves. / I’m setting up and storing by, swallowing run-off, / rushing to take the laundry in. /
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Ice scabs the black roads, the hills impassable / old houses overlook the Bottoms / become pedestaled offerings to the wind / stomping down
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Sweetly she haunts, / a toothless ghost. I catch her / hiding in smoke from the old stove; / a scent like toasted chilies in sweet oil
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Preparation appeals to the obsessive compulsive streak / that sleeps on the whole quiet in my nature. / How I enjoy with somber pleasure li
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The quartet musicians: I marvel at their sync. / Small meetings of eyes crossing chasms of collaboration, / the violent workings of their e
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I am the shadows of the forest constantly on the prowl through the undergrowth / at any moment, I will break into a clearing. / Eternal twi
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I step out of the blue-gray world of the office / To the yellow-gray world of August smog. / Greedy for my hour, begrudgingly-bestowed / My
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The hills in autumn are hawk-colored. / The wind flaps and screeches through dry straw, / burlap and denim wait to be stuffed and faces pai
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I want to be a geode, sly and surreptitious. / Split me apart. Demosthenes open wide, / all serrated tongue and semi-precious teeth. / / I am redwood bark on a mossy floor, / dreaming of saguaro neighbors and / the stultifying Arizona clim
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Satan doesn’t have to come to me. I’ll go to him. / I expect to see him: waiting, massive, / writhing. / / I am too impatient for the bottle. / I chew through pure blue agave, / greedy for the gusano. / / Buffeted by protein, elixired,
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We look out over the place where our two rivers meet / We look out over highways that loop and fence the town / But I don’t see the sky. A
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I concentrate on trying not to sweat. / You may find this hard to believe / But when I speak, I bruise my tongue. / This is me now, talking through the pain. / / Another Fourth of July come and gone, / And as soon as dusk comes I make my esca
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It seems impossible now to imagine how the years have separated us. / There was a time when we were like one being. Twins, / / dressed a
by celestialpie
217 words, 5 comments,
on Jul 7 2:42 PM. In Contemporary, Free verse, Life, Love, Personal, Thoughts, Memories, Women, Friendship
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Always surreal mirrors of the city town or outskirts they inhabit / selling fishing tackle bait night crawlers flies / racks of music on au
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This desire is absurd. / I have no hope of knowing you. / We happen to inhabit the same planet. / That is the extent of our commonality. / / Hollywood peddles. / I promised myself I would look / but never buy. Yet I look down
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Sunset red stains the plains / like Quantrill days in bloody Lawrence. / A kestrel arcs overhead, but he has not / one red feather. / / On
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Somewhere over the rainbow, / There are no seven steps to heaven. / But the spectral paths of deadly sins / await my tread. / A leather needle and an alchemy den, / where, white-smocked, I gather / Solomonic shades for black experiments.
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Merciful-- the only kind adjective / ever ascribed darkness; it awards us / the privilege of aeons-old stars: the chance / to wink out of
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The rumblings of consciousness / nacreous illusions bloom / the mind-fields scarlet: / Poppies. Dead-eyed center. / / Gravity does not ex
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It’s been an unusually tempestuous winter. / We come dragging up, shored to the building sides / by the wind-tunnel effect, the narrowness
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You knew me when I was beautiful. / I don’t want you to see me now. / I don’t want you to walk away tsking, / the pity— / / “Not even thir
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Aftermath of fermentation: / / crystalline grape guts / scrim staves of / a now-empty cask. / / Hundreds of bottles of wine / and divine meringues / whisper like possibilities in / / shared oak origins. / Smudges of lipstick,
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I am forced to flee / nightly the odious thunder / of your apnea. /
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by celestialpie
226 words, 21 comments,
on Dec 3 9:56 PM 2007. In Adult, Contemporary, Dark, Fantasy, Free verse, Life, Love, Personal, Spiritu
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When you fry the rice, let it turn brown, like our skin, then you’ll know: it’s time to add water. White girls look good in pastels. You’
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“Just because I’m presumin’ / That I could be kind of human / If I only had a heart. . .” / -E.Y. Harburg, “If I Only Had a Heart” / / /
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La tortuga swims inexorably / through my consciousness, / chastening me with his ageless stare. / / “Where is the hare?” I ask. / I always try to be irreverent / when I am nervous or guilty. / / “Dead,” comes the reply. / / He pitie
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II. Preparation / / In southern Spain / I once visited the ruins of a Moorish castle. / A stove had survived. / A small opening at the bas
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