It’s too late for my poor husbands, but let me spare you some of their grief, because in their search for that elusive metaphor, poets can be somewhat “eccentric.” If you date a poet, everyone will think you are the person they are writing about. You will be the person they are writing about. (unless …
She lined her windows with cobalt glasses, wine bottles and sometimes even glass birds. She was the the only poet I had ever known, so part of me thought this was how it had to be done, until of course she started getting cats, and they disagreed. They were right of course. That is also …
Winter clears her throat, pulls on her coat, and begins the long walk home Silver clouds follow her Whispering secrets no one stops to hear
Pitty pitty pitty pat Ran the kitty kitty cat Down the stairs in seconds flat Why? Because And that is that Kitty kitty kitty cat
I always told myself when I escaped Texas, it would be different, but …
is this the beginning or the end sometimes starting over feels just like passing through just like redirecting to true north
It’s ok That is what everyone will say Close your eyes It will all go away Tomorrow, is another day
I dreamed I was a fly on the wall. Quietly watching. Until, One day I was.
She found herself slipping into a dream The prison that appears to be all there is The best she can do but ….
They will come flooding in like starlings it must seem tragic, or terrifying, or melancholy and the only remedy is hate and fear