Between the lines and through the lens…
When all the fuss has faded like guilt that glides from gloss, when I’ve pulled back the hair, when I’ve crept from the clothes, when my flesh is all that you see and there is nothing left to hide the parts of me I never wanted to be, Will you…? Will I…? When my […]
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Beau, tu sais? Tu es beau, c’est vrai. Non, I say, ca, c’est pas vrai. Moi, je sais d’autre chose, mais beau? Non, I say, je ne suis pas beau. Fragility I know, mon ami s’appelle fragilité, pour lui je porte a smile, comme de vêtements, like a shield, mon sourire est beau, ca, […]
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– Along the river bed, long running with water already washed through our hands, – long is not the hold we have to harbour, – long running with this water no longer light at its level, no longer smooth along its sands, – along this bend of river I cast into the current, like a […]
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– Control. How to cut deep. Tipping toes in the tepid tides of therapy. We are cunning creatures in unconscious, under cover, cool to discover the character beneath the cadaver. Control. How to discover, how to distance the self from its disguise, from the depths we dive to deceive the day, the way we weave […]
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In the shadow of all its history, in the sorrow behind its sparkle, I sprinkle fairy lights on the drying roots of this dying tree. At the summit of all its beauty, from the forest freshy felled, I place a blood red rose on this tree cut down from hope. All words […]
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Day 20 National Poetry Writing Month #NaPoWriMo What is it when he looks at me that makes me want to love him and when he cries that makes he want to hold him and when he hurts than makes me want to heal him and when he lets me in makes me want to run […]
Read More… Day 13 of National Poetry Writing Month 30 poems in 30 days Beau, tu sais? Tu es beau, c’est vrai. Non, I say, ca, c’est pas vrai. Moi, je sais d’autre chose, mais beau? Non, I say, je ne suis pas beau. Fragility I know, mon ami s’appelle fragilité, pour lui je porte a […]
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I eye I see a head in the frame, a wall frame, a half frame, a half head, a half of me, a reflection of who I am, of what you see, part of a picture framed before finished I eye I see myself, a self I have created, centered, assembled, to show you […]
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And she sang of hope and harmony in a borrowed frock on Tuesday nights in a smokey bar below the Bowery where the Irish downed their whiskey while the Italians were always frisky and they touched her, always, afterwards her faithful followers fingering flesh as if to caress the affection she injected into lyrics, […]
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