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Literature Text
Tidepools
I saw my soul in a tidepool
of the Adriatic Sea – turban
snails and purple-spiked urchins
hid their soft undersides as sea
stars inched from one pool
to the next. My fingers grazed
tubeworms and anemones,
scared a mollusk, flipped
a struggling sand dollar.
I saw the future in strewn
sea shells and crab tracks,
dug up clams to whisper
my secrets between their hinges
before tossing them back
like a message in a bottle.
I wanted to hold this tiny world
in my hands like a mirror
and plunge its shallow depths
until I knew everything
there was to know. But when
the moon pulled closer,
my tidepool was lost in the surge;
the mirror shattered, left
to the relentless urgency
of the rising tide.
Clutter
She cleaned my room while
I was gone. Picked up the floor,
vacuumed the rug, made
the bed. The mess makes her
grouchy, twitchy. But my mess
and her mess are different
creatures; hers are monsters
to be conquered; mine are
companions to be loved.
A perfectly smooth river
stone; ticket scraps to each
concert; a woven basket
crafted in Mexico. My bookshelves
overflow and my floor is scuffed
and my desk is covered in paint
stains and each flaw is a memory
and each mess is an experience.
My rumpled bedsheets know
the curve of my body; my shoes
are always ready to walk
out the door; the bottom left
drawer of my desk gets stuck,
and I’m okay with that.
It’s fine. It’s secondhand, worn
and loved, and does its job faithfully.
And when it gets stuck, I only need
to pull a little harder.
Spiral Staircase
I am a spiral staircase -
a spine twisted into itself,
existing only in between
spaces, neither here
nor there, going up
and going down. I am
called by basements
to descend their dark
depths; I am summoned
by attics, longing to reveal
their secrets. Wisteria vines
twist around iron; lighthouses
flash Morse code messages;
-.-. .-.. .. -- -…-.-. .-.. .. -- -…
climb; climb. Follow my
linear, crooked helix path;
adventure awaits
in either direction.
Playground Philosophy
Perfect balance must be earned; strength is built
up step by step. Climb your geodesic
domes like trees; dig your hands into the silt
of knowledge; learn by being kinetic
whippoorwills, flying from slide to swing set.
Roar like tigers; run like werewolves under
full moons setting fast. You’ve monkey bars yet
to cross, entire worlds of small wonder
to excavate like diamond mines. Seesaw
jousting, chalk scribbling, soccer-grass-stained knees
give way to new pursuits – medicine, law,
botany – adults have no time for these
treasures you leave behind unknowingly.
In your play, there is still yet poetry.
Momentary
My favorite mug
is a shiny, glazed
turquoise, wide
and deep. Its weight
fits solidly in my hand,
radiating warmth
on winter nights
spent in books
and under blankets.
Amber ripples of tea
glimmer in the soft
lamplight, droplets
clinging to the lip
of my cup like flecks
of liquid glitter.
A breath of steam
fogs the window;
I trace a flower.
Strange Beauty
I want to love you the way
smoke loves sunshine -
an entanglement that leaves
both glowing with a warmth
that makes the intangible
observable.
I want to love you the way
encyclopedias love wildflowers -
swallowed whole, a carmine heart
left between dusty spines,
crushed by weight and time
into one.
I want to love you the way
verdigris loves copper -
a natural patina that grows,
envelops and protects,
hiding the soft, shining underside
that only we know.
I saw my soul in a tidepool
of the Adriatic Sea – turban
snails and purple-spiked urchins
hid their soft undersides as sea
stars inched from one pool
to the next. My fingers grazed
tubeworms and anemones,
scared a mollusk, flipped
a struggling sand dollar.
I saw the future in strewn
sea shells and crab tracks,
dug up clams to whisper
my secrets between their hinges
before tossing them back
like a message in a bottle.
I wanted to hold this tiny world
in my hands like a mirror
and plunge its shallow depths
until I knew everything
there was to know. But when
the moon pulled closer,
my tidepool was lost in the surge;
the mirror shattered, left
to the relentless urgency
of the rising tide.
Clutter
She cleaned my room while
I was gone. Picked up the floor,
vacuumed the rug, made
the bed. The mess makes her
grouchy, twitchy. But my mess
and her mess are different
creatures; hers are monsters
to be conquered; mine are
companions to be loved.
A perfectly smooth river
stone; ticket scraps to each
concert; a woven basket
crafted in Mexico. My bookshelves
overflow and my floor is scuffed
and my desk is covered in paint
stains and each flaw is a memory
and each mess is an experience.
My rumpled bedsheets know
the curve of my body; my shoes
are always ready to walk
out the door; the bottom left
drawer of my desk gets stuck,
and I’m okay with that.
It’s fine. It’s secondhand, worn
and loved, and does its job faithfully.
And when it gets stuck, I only need
to pull a little harder.
Spiral Staircase
I am a spiral staircase -
a spine twisted into itself,
existing only in between
spaces, neither here
nor there, going up
and going down. I am
called by basements
to descend their dark
depths; I am summoned
by attics, longing to reveal
their secrets. Wisteria vines
twist around iron; lighthouses
flash Morse code messages;
-.-. .-.. .. -- -…-.-. .-.. .. -- -…
climb; climb. Follow my
linear, crooked helix path;
adventure awaits
in either direction.
Playground Philosophy
Perfect balance must be earned; strength is built
up step by step. Climb your geodesic
domes like trees; dig your hands into the silt
of knowledge; learn by being kinetic
whippoorwills, flying from slide to swing set.
Roar like tigers; run like werewolves under
full moons setting fast. You’ve monkey bars yet
to cross, entire worlds of small wonder
to excavate like diamond mines. Seesaw
jousting, chalk scribbling, soccer-grass-stained knees
give way to new pursuits – medicine, law,
botany – adults have no time for these
treasures you leave behind unknowingly.
In your play, there is still yet poetry.
Momentary
My favorite mug
is a shiny, glazed
turquoise, wide
and deep. Its weight
fits solidly in my hand,
radiating warmth
on winter nights
spent in books
and under blankets.
Amber ripples of tea
glimmer in the soft
lamplight, droplets
clinging to the lip
of my cup like flecks
of liquid glitter.
A breath of steam
fogs the window;
I trace a flower.
Strange Beauty
I want to love you the way
smoke loves sunshine -
an entanglement that leaves
both glowing with a warmth
that makes the intangible
observable.
I want to love you the way
encyclopedias love wildflowers -
swallowed whole, a carmine heart
left between dusty spines,
crushed by weight and time
into one.
I want to love you the way
verdigris loves copper -
a natural patina that grows,
envelops and protects,
hiding the soft, shining underside
that only we know.
Literature
A Conglomeration of Beauty
i. My father is a hurricane making love to the ocean. When I am in love I need someone who lies below the waves, ever swirling and present, who knows I am a tag along skiff - small, but still significant. I need someone who is willing to guide me along the deepest parts of life, water coiling around my bow to pull me to safety. That is you.
ii. With summer washed words I will tell you of my past and how falling in love is a terrible way to describe the feeling. You don't settle either, you make a journey, you create something. It is something entirely too complex to find a phrase that suits it and I will cry for days over this thought. Pleas
Literature
Silent Song
Attuned to the songs
of silence
I linger in this liminal space
as the sacred solace
of solitude surrounds me.
The fingertips
of the divine strum
at unseen strings,
their harmony moves me,
begs me
to give it a name.
I do not know -
over the chords,
a familiar echo
persists.
But like an impatient tide
of clouds,
the songs never last;
the treasured pace
of silence
grows too fast -
before my eyes
constellations unfold
like a map
of dreams.
The black, black mirror
of this night still gleams,
my reflection
a pale report
of my fading significance;
your memory
a dissonance
never resolved.
My hungry ears
cannot rest,
I begin tracking the sky
as
Literature
avifauna
curious, curious
the hang is luring,
syllables rolling
from lips alluring.
quips quick
with whispers that linger
softly in the air
and i'm hang-
ing on the edge
of your next words.
old muse, new views
this poetic motion
glides whimsical;
with a hummingbird quickness
that auras over my eyelids.
Suggested Collections
MagicalJoey hosts anthology contests with some regularity, and I finally got in on the action. Learn more over here if you're interested in entering.
I chose my theme with the help of a poll; thankfully, my watchers chose the one I wanted to do anyway I keep a list of things I find lovely in unusual ways - things that aren't typically on the forefront of anyone's mind when presented with the word "beauty." Things like staircases, driftwood, crepuscular rays, playgrounds, keys, routine, in-between places.
I don't know yet if I'll keep these as a collection - I may resubmit them as individual poems later.
I chose my theme with the help of a poll; thankfully, my watchers chose the one I wanted to do anyway I keep a list of things I find lovely in unusual ways - things that aren't typically on the forefront of anyone's mind when presented with the word "beauty." Things like staircases, driftwood, crepuscular rays, playgrounds, keys, routine, in-between places.
I don't know yet if I'll keep these as a collection - I may resubmit them as individual poems later.
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Comments13
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Congratulations on winning second place in the anthology contest