CStepping over a reflection in a puddle
the trees in the sky reminded
him of something he would see
(die)
Newest
PlaymakingIn our eyes the shadowless birth of stone, a path to water, a forest with no beginningPlaymaking
but a center, iron with joy, suffering.
It is a jewel there as birthright.
It is as indestructible as love.
In the short heat we are brilliant,
windowed, tall behind our bodies.
Look out in the fields
at what has woken from a dream. Look past the cities
to a farmless heartland, Where there are no bones for miles.
Only wet summer skin, Wet warm hair, the eyes of a river
drinking from grass. Look out at what is not dying.
by ~burymybones
Half1. HalfHalf
One half of myself at the yellow
water edge of the lake, the other stuck
against its will in my pawn shop imagination, refuge of old and useless fortunes,
a thousand obsolete objects, and me
fumbling among them.
Underneath the refuse of an October sky, I cannot picture another way to live
but by myself. The water
seems emulsified in a grey fire. And just think, even these clouds
have traveled such a long way from
the rest of the world.
Today I am telling the strong-necked bird On the deck feeder
how I have alw
by ~burymybones
GravityOf course He had no intention of doing it that day, Stalling away morning And the frost that crept fingerlikeGravity
But which would later melt away
Tiny and unborn from the petals of grass.
He called blades of grass Petals, and thunder-storms showers.
He followed the variations of ice Everywhere in the house. A mirror, a window, The steel of a kitchen sink
Where his reflection held like gravity In a shallow glint of sun. He suddenly felt soft-blooded, Like a cat in a square of light, Caught in a blinding warmth.
by ~burymybones
Lost on a long road tripmy retina is slowly stretching, iris toughening, blindnessLost on a long road trip
tracks me like a television.
the cars too, gleaming angels scuttling the paths while pedestrians totter by.
this secret garden of glass. there is a dome, a roman arch,
and the sunlight naked as sculpture.
an image appears. a word appears. this is poetry.
the word disappears, nothing in place of it. and then
halfway across Illinois in my car I see Chicago
spread out like cheap insulation.
the world is far behind, a wet field glin
by ~burymybones
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Devious Info
- Current Residence: Was Minnesota, now Baltimore
- Interests: guitar, music, poetry, breathing, etc.
- Favourite movie: too many
- Favourite band or musician: sufjan stevens
- Favourite genre of music: everything
- Favourite artist: my sister. beksinski.
- Favourite poet or writer: random people.
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- Favourite style of art: your own kind
- Personal Quote: We are our own ghosts
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your way with words has earned you a spot on my watchlist...not that it means much to anyone but me but still, i'm looking forward to future poems of yours :^]
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scratch it too much, and it will either spread or bleed...
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