Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Mr. Darcy, poetry, poets.org, Victoria Chang
Then we are in the back seat of a car kissing
not the light kind but one where our
hands are on each other’s cheeks holding
each other’s heads as if they will fall
off why does so much love come at the beginning
then disappear then once again at the moment
before death why can’t the same kind exist
in between in the breaths in the
afternoon in the sitting room in a place of costumes
little girls dress like princesses one pink one
blue one yellow they wear plastic heels because
they still think they will never fall
“Love, being in love, isn’t a constant thing. It doesn’t always flow at the same strength. It’s not always like a river in flood. It’s more like the sea. It has tides, it ebbs and flows. The thing is, when love is real, whether it’s ebbing or flowing, it’s always there, it never goes away. And that’s the only proof you can have that it is real, and not just a crush or an infatuation or a passing fancy.” — Aidan Chambers
this quote changed me. CHANGED ME. sometimes i feel like i’m not “in it” to the point where i should be, or not “enough” like his enough, or am left wondering why i am thinking about other things, like what to eat for lunch, when maybe i should be thinking about him, and how maybe he’s hungry. but this quote is the truth. we ebb. we flow. but it’s constant AND THAT’S PERFECT.
cheesy, but appropriate. why 2018 is worth it:
Lets face it, you did steal me. But you saved my life too. And somewhere in the middle, you showed me a place so different and beautiful, I can never get it out of my mind. And I can’t get you out of there either. — Lucy Christopher
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: penpals, poetry, rough draft, stream of consciousness
wrote this sunday afternoon. it was raining, i’d just eaten way too much pasta, and realized i’d been doing a lot more reading than writing lately. so here’s a lil’ first draft.. i’m going to tuck it away for a few weeks and then tear into it.
He prays for me
kneels down on wet
concrete. It’s loud
but he weeps for me,
dips his amateur blues
into rough hands
that guide his cock home,
and he just stays-
prays like that, with all
this lustrous faith, always
all the stars stacked
in his damp corner
I send him a photo
of my smile, try
not to let the crumbs
He anticipates me
says it just like that,
like a man who knows
how not to anticipate
I claim his words under
the comforter, saturated
with no one,
poem into his letters.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Paige Taggart, poetry, You Make Love Like the Last Snow Leopard
You make love like the last
snow leopard. Time hunts your shadows.
Your grooves dip a real x of an arc.
I love your shadow. It’s performance on the wall.
Your white hair flocked. It’s old age that makes
you kill for food. You bring a long blank to
bed in, the weight draws out.
You need someone with skill for the excursion.
Ride through the reservoir of sour peaches.
Your name meanders through the grass. Tall
people are in the way. I crowd surf to get to you.
You spill me into the flood. Water rushes out your sides.
You make a mystery of playing political love.
I could kill for you. I’d bring you an eagle stuffed
with finches. Its pouch growing large and groaning
in your palm. A cliff of umbrellas and memory
shaping your every move.
(perfect = all of this, but espec. that first stanza)