A childlike mourning wells up in me, so I ignore my purpling hands A let myself stand out on the frozen lake just to mourn the end of Her, She who is the end to all.
Mourning Morana (The Death of Winter) Read More »
A short poem I created, around 2 months ago
IN THE END (short poem) Read More »
Tears are so quiet It’s people that make the noise Gasping and yelling Listen to the tears They speak the truth of your heart There’s love in each one No ratings yet.____You must be logged in to rate this post.
BABY ON BOARD thinks people can change No ratings yet.____You must be logged in to rate this post.
Interstate Pessimist Read More »
The snow falls endlessly now, each flake a promissory note drawn against spring’s distant account. We watch it gather at our doors, pile high against the windows where our grandparents once planted gardens. Time moves differently in this season— stretched thin like month-end budgets, brittle as the icicles that fence us in. Each morning, the
When Will Winter End? Read More »
In this poem, Claire Kroening explores the growth and erosion of life in the analogy of nature’s slowly-fleeting wonders.
Fractured Horizons Read More »
All we aim to do is capture that Thing which can not be captured, and I hold my breath hoping It will not notice me, a humble, starving worshiper at the altar, snapping a photograph.
“Holding My Breath” Read More »
There is a photo, in a box, in a closet, deep in the house, of my grandmother in her garden.
I’d like to think that I’ll be okay. That the rain will stop someday. The pain will simply leave. My mind can just be at ease. I’d like to think that I’ll be okay. Or that is what I used to say. At ages 9, 13, 17, and 21 when my brain would go
I’d Like to think that I will be okay Read More »
Friends, friends, friends! I am someone because I am my friends! I know myself even though I sound quite scattered. (Please remind me, who am I?) God, I just feel so lost! But, inside, I can tell what I am. I just need to sort through these damn lives!
Borrowed Personhood Read More »
This poem is inspired by a letter I sent a friend in response to her reflections under current political circumstances. The world suddenly feels dangerous and foreign with bullies gaining power. I say, let them have their victories. We are in a spiritual revolution and love will always win.
Note for Cat Ladies Read More »
There is an artful delicacy with which the author, Richard Taylor, brings me as a reader of his book, into his rural world. A place where the priority of caring and the acceptance of an inoculate fate of frailty and mortality are inherent in being alive. I found myself sprawled on my bed, in the mid-afternoon sunlight spilling through the large windows of my pine encased bedroom with my one-eyed cat, reading aloud the typed lines on these aesthetically thought-provoking pages as Debussy played on an LP in another room.
Earth Bones: Poetry Book Review Read More »
Watch as the children play their game,In sunlit yards of green and gray.Each round, the rules are not the same;Some always find a way to stay. The swing set creaks with shifting weight,As higher climbers plant their feet.The others push, but hesitate,Their momentum never quite complete. A seesaw balances with care,Until one side slips off
Watch as the Children Play Read More »
We have lived in this small house for three years; On this nondescript California street, Birds nest in the awnings every April, Twice now in the front and once in the back. The cat trills through the dirty bay window, As feathered builders shape a dwelling of Twigs and spider silk, and old gum
“Bittersweet blue beauty that skipped a generation.” This is a ghazal about my daughter and mother. I love the challenge of formal poetry forms and the creative constraint they impose. A ghazal is a particularly interesting type of love poem, with a repeated refrain that reinforces the theme. I thought it was fitting when describing my daughter and mother, who have much in common but don’t know each other well.
“World-weary brains bathe in sweet dopamine.” I wrote this sonnet to examine my own relationship with my phone, which, like most people, is not healthy.
The old thrones are cracked and crumbling like worn leather, we wait in a plume of dust. Streams of water poisoning our hovels, but we keep going. The sun rises to another clear sky. Beautiful red morning at the river of factories, noise polluting. Desperately clinging to the
“The Creature of the Night” by Sandra Harkness is a poignant exploration of solitude, despair, and the quest for meaning within the embrace of the night. Harkness weaves a rich tapestry of emotions and imagery, drawing the reader into the shadowy realm of a being that exists between the realms of light and darkness. Through the journey of this nocturnal entity, born from virtue yet shaped by despair, the poem delves into the universal themes of isolation, the search for self, and the paradox of strength found in vulnerability.
The Creature of the Night Read More »
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