The blackbird sang goodnight
in a string of trills
the sunset lighting up the trails
with one last spill
before the day reached its limit
hushed and stilled
Poetry
Sunday Wordle: A house made of books
I am too small
and the world much too big
put me in a house made from books
instead of bricks
leaving everything to the imagination
with broken spines
as a sign
of worlds well lived
don’t leave me here constrained
in this broken body in bits
and the mind inside
that is folded a million times to fit
I can’t hold myself together alone
untethered in this storm
like a flag surrendering in the wind
comfort me with silk weaved wit and imagery
feed this insatiable hunger
for something to lift me from this black, black hole
don’t let me fall back to dust all alone.
Sunday Wordle: Death in our image
I cannot reach you
the shimmering mirage
of my dreams undone
there was no triumph
in the sigh that escaped my lungs
but all these moments that reveal
we had made death in our image
and I would be damned
if I did not quiver
at what we’ve become
Grey rock Sunday wordle on a Monday
To be a grey rock
as time blends stories
into the room
the downward slide of matter
wear and tear
A ravens beak
to strip it bare
Sunday Wordle: Sigh
A glimpse of a moment
thrust itself into shape
fraught and staggered from the shift
our breath caught
in the thoughts of what if’s and mights
finding ourselves at a low ebb
we sigh
Sunday Wordle: Crosshairs
The Gods cast the die
and scribbled us into formation
our digital gaze upon the earth
our lips sewn taut
caught in the crosshairs
of our own deceit
we created light
while painting the darkest of times
Day 24: Wolf Rising
The sky was aglow in orange
through the gaps between the trees
a fireball of knowledge
setting the skies to darkness
the slow blinking eye
of a wolf rising in the north
ready to watch over the night
as the owls called forth
Merry Christmas
day 23: I try not to think….
I try not to think about you
but you come into my memories view
and I don’t want to let go
but you’re already gone
I don’t want to think about it too much
I’m scared I won’t make it out alive
but sometimes thats preferable
than this pain inside.
day 22: Glad rag of flesh
I’m a tenant in this glad rag of flesh
running up a debt
do I owe it all to death?
that smiling skeleton
brought my breath
it catches in my throat every now and then
holding it in
then breathing it out when
I’m back in the room again
Day 21: Prism
My breath was a triangle
shaping me into a prism
a contortionist
contorting to comfort
within discomfort
the pain a backrest
in which to rest my head
a backdrop of tidal waves
to slowly tread
