Archive for ‘Marie’

February 20, 2017

Seattle Sunshine

by A. Marie

Rail Punk tells me
Jimi Hendrix killed Kurt Cobain.

Ballard is a gentrified oasis,
where Shiba Inus relax in coffee houses
dining vegan and gluten-free.

I saw a BMW rolling down Aurora Avenue
while a man pushing his life in a grocery cart
crossed the street. I had a thought
but lost it, as the traffic light turned red
and I realized I’d missed my chance.

February 14, 2017

Mars

by A. Marie

Hot slap slips loose the animal,
night jasmine burns in Asia, the Isle of Man
sinks into the Irish Sea, Solomon Islands
grow legs and head north
to eat Okinawa, chop every cherry bloom
into kindling
to feed the storm.

February 2, 2017

Anonymous

by A. Marie

Fever, like a wound,
twist of heat and burn,

we use to follow the stars home, we once
thought the Morning Star a god,

Lucifer was once tangled in love,
of Venus hue.

January 24, 2017

Drome

by A. Marie

Again, we collide, double minded with dueling heartbeats,
Strumming lungs stricken and tightened in a sharp heave,
Lacing legs together to drive out frosty winters, cruel lovers,
Parents that pulled at our arms and swam about us like bees,

January 10, 2017

The Beasts of Belltown

by A. Marie

This fire is cold, cold as the north wind blows
over the Belltown towers, blinking in their dead lights.

Beasts of Pacific silver, crowns of wire and iron bone,
cool jaded life, dispensing profane alleluias, alleluias, allelu,
forsook from the holies, allelu-lu-luia.

January 5, 2017

Younglings

by A. Marie

Younglings run up and down the upstairs hallway
causing my mugs and tea cups set atop my fridge to tremble.
Momentary images race through my consciousness as I dream them
with halos of holly and twigs, crowns of leaves,
long sticks and action figures and a stuffed pony
being whirled over a little imp’s head like a helicopter. I hear

January 3, 2017

Split

by A. Marie

Make up your mind.

Do you believe you are a star
falling to earth?

Heavenward is the water
rising from the ocean back into your hands.

December 30, 2016

Let’s Get Going On Our Way

by A. Marie

Wonderment shakes my hand, and escorts me down the spiral stair.
I am eager to meet the ghosts and echoes and shadows that linger there.
I am wistful, for what I leave behind, but gentle past waves farewell;
I am letting all completed and unfinished projects rest upon the mantle.

December 27, 2016

Behemoth

by A. Marie

To keep a body inside the ribs of a behemoth roaming
along the shores, we question this, this dying within
a larger shifting breathing form. And this,

this rolling, this captivity, amongst the innards
of a faceless creature; with frequent gasping and clutching
we tarry, and hurry along the tongue-like road.

December 16, 2016

Yule Babies (Christmas Poetry Challenge…Sort Of)

by A. Marie

Poetry challenge: Christmas poem.

.

I drink Rose.
I don’t care who you tell.
Warm cordials of blackberry indigo;
the expensive flutes
come out of the cupboard; apple cider, warm
cocoa, champagne
that wanes
with the wintry night.

December 12, 2016

Watching A Christian Walk

by A. Marie

You own a holy fork with seven tines.
The winged lion of Saint Michael meets with you
at the marina every Monday through Friday in the form of the sea. You say

that whatever is out there is in the little things,
and is not concerned with money or fame or how much you know.
You say to understand I must watch the grass grow:

It performs this one single act its whole life. See?

December 7, 2016

The Cracklims

by A. Marie

The Cracklims live inside the dark,
In the nooks and crannies of the tree bark.
In the slits of sidewalks and between the walls,
Waiting silently for a trip, tumble or fall.

You see the Cracklims like the space
Between the books and the bookcase.
They like the hidden, the tight, the narrow;
In those gaps the Cracklims will burrow.

November 30, 2016

Jewel Box in Thornton Square

by A. Marie

Jangles of glassware, in the hearth is a pod
of pale periwinkle, mauve, diamonds of cigarette ends
flare like sparks in the dimness.

And from here, outside, I see a man and woman laughing.
Clinking their smartphones like beer mugs,
crossing their hearts and hoping
not to die old.

November 23, 2016

Saturn Peering through His Ring, Dreaming in the Dark

by A. Marie

Ten thousand one wings in the lion’s ring,
Holy and houndish in pursuit from mountain;
Trembling are the shadows of the dogdayed age,
Widowed from the Summerland, adieu.

November 21, 2016

Dunes

by A. Marie

The sunlight smacks off skyscrapers, the chests
of engines heave and gasp; chemical sweat
drips from every brow, as we wilt and bend
beneath the smothering heat of Monday.

November 18, 2016

How Can We Get To Sleep Each Roaring Night?

by A. Marie

What is the What?
Who is the Who?
When is the When?
Where will I lay my head and rest?

How is a misnomer
Each time I crack an egg,
Each time I fry its yoke,
Its slither down my throat,
My turn in the game of consumption
And conquest.

November 15, 2016

Serpent

by A. Marie

A road that winds back in on itself, handless creature
of the wood whose crown is dirt,

slow in pace
and intake.

Killing is a long trial,
that begins with observance and waiting. From cool dim morning
to the heat of high noon, darkness inserts itself
into the squeeze of time.

November 11, 2016

Everything, Moves

by A. Marie

If something should happen you will overcome it.

Know that when you are told to be brave you are being asked to make a choice. Nothing will ever stop changing. That means you too. You will try to halt such things by connecting broad resemblances, and insist that truth is truth, like how a stone is a stone, and how a wing is a wing.

October 27, 2016

Sherry

by A. Marie

Pumpkin orange makes our home,
held with the warm hearth,
domed with thoughts of snow,
old and lingering leaves,
handwritten letters that have piled on our stoop,

October 24, 2016

The Pacific

by A. Marie

Heave, and brace: how one tethers the moon with lash and love.
The midnight’s gown drops down around,
but the ocean, she will not be sheltered – those stars must be held,
the watery bosom pulling heaven out.

October 13, 2016

Running Leaf Above the Moor

by A. Marie

She says I am the leaf sent out to sail the air across the moor.

Quietude and Rolling are my calling, to be tossed and savaged
like the sea.

Respite is a foreigner, who gallops as a steed
far from my body, as if it were the conduit of its destruction.

October 7, 2016

Mother

by A. Marie

Mother rings inside my ears:
She scratches the big empty as a cat would bat
The dangles of curtains and wobbling kitchenry.

She blares as a hot prod,
Thunders as mustangs across Chincoteague;
Mother is a peeling, daggering wind
Over the ancient, far Ionian Sea.

September 30, 2016

The Dipping Bough (An Autumn Poem)

by A. Marie

She has hung onto her children, cradled and loved them.

The wind sometimes whipped them, and the rain beat them down,
but by the strength of her arm, and the tenderness of her fingers,
so she has kept them secure and well fed.

September 26, 2016

Dangerous Things

by A. Marie

Chitin dreams are shredded under foot, and scars
With crooked knees slowly make their way down the road.

Limping, with coat collars pulled high to cover up their chins,
Their lips, their delicate seeds of hope they keep balanced

Upon the palm of their tongues, so they continue.

September 22, 2016

Heading Home

by A. Marie

I take the square window and fold it up,
Tuck it inside the small cupboard upon my left lung
And under my heart. The road is a leviathan’s tail
Serpentine across the North American continent,

September 19, 2016

A September Rain at 3:30 a.m.

by A. Marie

What if we talked of rain the way we talk of
snowflakes, of individual pride and
spatters that leave flushes behind would it
change
the rain?

Would we mold lakes from
droplets, figure eights rupturing from our heel

September 12, 2016

Amber Bird

by A. Marie

Yellow
pillow, a sigil mark on the sheet;
carved in by
snotty daydreams, caving
longings, a sweat stain
by a beached mermaid on the mattress.
Noting every
slight,
wrinkle,
melancholy bathtub drama that

September 9, 2016

Hum

by A. Marie

When the morn slithers her yellow light,
my heart, she replies

Om-dom. Om-dom.

Together we rise. We walk the hallway, kiss our coffee,
drink in the fresh air that flows from the opening door.