The sky’s veil to bed
When the sky takes off her day clothes and slips into her night gown
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poetry
Mourning Morana (The Death of Winter)
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.
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IN THE END (short poem)
A short poem I created, around 2 months ago
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The Silence of A Tree Walking
No matter what. No matter where
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In Violent Dispay
In cosmic rhythm, beyond human scope, Earth turns and changes, a living kaleidoscope. Forces profound, both gentle and fierce, Shape our world through eons diverse. From microscopic to mountainous scale, Nature writes her ever-unfolding tale.
Tears
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.
Interstate Pessimist
BABY ON BOARD thinks people can change No ratings yet.____You must be logged in to rate this post.
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VTSF – Silenced Dreams
In dreams I see the shadows come,Their footsteps echo through the night.My tongue turns leaden, cold and numb,While truth dissolves in pale moonlight.The ink runs black across the page. Each throat constricts in silent rage,As screens go dark before our sight.We’re actors trapped upon the stage,Our posts deleted, banned outright.The ink runs black across the
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Bones
I drove past a pile of bones yesterday. Sitting in the hot sun, melting slowly into the pavement as my car sped by.
Fractured Horizons
In this poem, Claire Kroening explores the growth and erosion of life in the analogy of nature’s slowly-fleeting wonders.
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Terrance Hayes Made Me Do It
Gone are those warm, emerald leaves of summertime, gone.
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“Holding My Breath”
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.
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“The Garden”
There is a photo, in a box, in a closet, deep in the house, of my grandmother in her garden.
Corpo Seco
Limbo Wailing in lonesome I have made Corpo secos Out of those who crossed my lines Stuck in the between of providing life and putting them to rest I keep them around With mental contracts I ban them With the binding seal Yet I haven’t found the courage to release This is the endless grief
Paths Since Forgotten
Claire Kroening explores the rawness of nature’s beauty in this prose-poem, drawing forward the simple movements that make the land sacred— not merely a home to the wildlife present.
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Note for Cat Ladies
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.
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On November 6, 2024
before there can be olivesthere must be a branchextended outward,growing the fruitdoing the workmaking peacebut my tree wasburned down Average Rating: ★★★★★____You must be logged in to rate this post.
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Jean Jacket
His scent worn into the fabric Smile worn into my head Records scratch as snow falls and laughs echo off the walls Soaked sheets hold the goodbyes never spoken Seagulls sing the songs of your journey Dancing in the basement of my old house Playing the memories like a broken tape The feelings a faded
Jean Jacket
His scent worn into the fabric Smile worn into my head Records scratch as snow falls and laughs echo off the walls Soaked sheets hold the goodbyes never spoken Seagulls sing the songs of your journey Dancing in the basement of my old house Playing the memories like a broken tape The feelings a faded
When the Leaves Fall
Its only organic that we change within seasons my love
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Persist
The power of the earth isn’t it’s riches it’s resources or it’s strength. But in its persistence. Steadfast through storms and quakes. Floods and droughts. There is no valor in its strength to withstand pain or be unaffected. For its tribulations tell its story through every way it is molded and layered. It persists. Its
Lies
Sometimes your mind lies to you At least mine does. Not an obvious one like the sky is green when it is clearly blue. But the 7 times I noted that I annoyed my friend in the last hour The type of lie that when I get up to leave, hoping to relieve myself of
Transfusion
Pump new blood into my veins Wash the tainted blood away Stained with a pain no one could heal Pushing its way from head to heel Leaving trails of violet ink My blood into cluster until it bubbles over the brink Now all that’s left is an echo chamber Of things I
Earth Bones: Poetry Book Review
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.
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4.18
Take the longer way home Just a couple more songs Just a little more sun on my face Wind breathing life into the stale metal chamber More time to cherish the way the sky is painted purple and pink by the setting sun More time to breathe in and out as life settles around
Cloud
A cornucopia of vibrant flames A young girl peering into a reflective lake The white tufts of cotton mold and shape over and over showcasing the depths of their versatility The moving picture never asks permission to change Never explains the shape it takes It just is It changes with the
The Threshold of Change
I am unsure of what is to come. Yes, I fear it. But I will not let it consume me. This poem is the release of apprehension.
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Fireflies at Dusk
I yearn for the simple things: fireflies at dusk. To sit in silence, watching the sun fall behind the trees, Casting shadows that reveal the chill that comes with being alone. Take me to a place with no time and I will sit and watch the rain hang in the air, Rainbow-tainted crystals that reveal
Reflections On Perfectionism
I remind myself often that it is good to receive criticism, because it means I am making someone uncomfortable, and that is how we grow.
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A Gold Lamp Doesn’t Stretch to fit
The mirrors whispers lies that creep under despite the lids to shut my eyes
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Musings After Rain
I sleep on the couch now, though I think it’s giving me bad dreams. The last time I slept in my bed, I dreamed gentle hands wrapped a bandage around my ankle, reluctant sweet hands who loved me so. I do not remember who it was, I could not see their face, but I would
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K.O.
Skyscrapers taller than your mother back then. I jump ship and pray for fame. Assassin slash historian. I’m just fucking with the way back when. Cause I’m struggling with the cheap shit. I’m struggling with my land-loving brain. I’m struggling with my memory. On top of it all, this thirst for shame. I think I’ll
Beauty School
The first raindrops of the piano keys leave me meaningless. I choke down the last ounce of a wedding you never cared to have. Listen poison, I will win. Listen poison, hear me win. You go down the drain just as easily as last month’s victim. Slowly, slowly goes my motive so that I do
WE, THE ALCHEMISTS
I WAS BORN AND RAISED IN THE REALM OF DARKNESS HOW ELSE WAS I TO LEARN TO BE A LIGHTHOUSE STAY AWAKE LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT (IT DOES) I ALMOST LET FEAR WIN TODAY INSTEAD I CHOSE TO SURRENDER TO REMEMBER
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Nest
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
Grace
“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.
Scroll
“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.
how honey is made
I am overcome with the sweetness As I swallow myself As i learned to swallow him I create a new sensation Sweet, thick Honey on my sleeves On my hands Lips pursed in something like pleasure Similar to the way the statues we pitied Stays frozen in their agony When you ask what it
I’ll be a God Today
To believe in a god is to believe in myself isn’t it? A woman made in their image Holy blood and angel tears if a deity is just a face of something unexplainable wouldn’t it be crazy if my face was a reflection of the love I give The energy I can flow But that’s …
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Old Throne
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
blood in the moonlight looks like water
I am by your side the grass is wet so we stay still keep the slick on our backs keep the sin in the past we hold each other like we weren’t broken a snake’s bite and a bone’s snap ago a moment before the new moon a moment too late the danger wasn’t the
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A Frozen Genny Melts
Frost-fractured streets, a patchwork quilt of cracks,As winter’s icy grip leaves Rochester’s roads ransacked.Potholes swallow tires, suspension springs recoil,Commuters swerve and dodge, a treacherous urban foil.But spring’s thaw brings promise, a chance to mend,As asphalt fills the gaps where winter did rend.The city crews in reflective vests toil long,Repairing, repaving, making the streets strong.Though scars … Continue reading Edit My Review
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The Creature of the Night
“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.
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Amidst the Sound and Light
Beneath the dome of twilight’s gentle sway, In throngs, we stood, a sea of eager souls. The stage alight, as night kissed day away, A symphony of sounds began to roll. The air, a canvas, painted with pure sound, Vibrations weaving through the heart’s own thread. Each note, a memory, tightly wound, Unfurling melodies in
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The Rusted Heart of Rochester
A Poem. In Rochester’s embrace, where worn bricks whisper tales,Echoes of a bygone industry softly wail,Steel bones, in rust’s embrace, tell their frail tales. Halls once alive with laughter, now echo with silent gales,Theaters and shops, like forgotten fables,In Rochester’s embrace, where worn bricks whisper tales. Vines caress stone, in nature’s tender veils,A vivid reclaiming,
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