Archive for ‘Marie’

April 18, 2018

Going Blind In The Sunshine

by A. Marie

Watch my eyes, they dip and dive, my hand over my mouth,
my chin in my shoulder, away like the cold – it’s spring. Let’s go.
The trees are shaking off their bitter time spent contemplating their
poesy to sing. Now, they begin the music, green notes illumed
lightbulbs, they’re on. Let’s head outside into the ramose sunshine.

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April 14, 2018

She Swims The Night

by A. Marie

She swims the night; the street is her sea. The street is her wave,
that clashes and eats at her tired soles. Unmarried women
don’t walk alone, so she dares it – whispers, Come on, breathy anxious
with wheels going round in her inner life. The troglodytes remain
shut up in their homes, rectangular mirrors smiling in their eyes.

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April 11, 2018

Stay Up

by A. Marie

They glare, the lanterns of the city, the rooftops lit with minds
that cannot sleep, with eyes

that will not close, and mine are along, the plung
of neuroticism; rest rises up and sudden there’s the tug. We’re
hot, a blade in need of pounding, the urge
to spin, lofty dreams, haggard visions, twisting
our teeth like screws. But the builders build. The makers make.

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April 4, 2018

Grasp

by A. Marie

They murmur beneath their breath
difficult woman,
obstinate girl,
opinionated,
shrew,
man-eater,
they shout to my face
unfuckable,
impossible,
what a waste
of a body,

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March 30, 2018

Farewell Poem for Kitchen

by A. Marie

House empty, I’m in
the pilot light, an eye unblunk in the stove
that yawns, I remember,
the delicious and burnt feasts I cooked here
wearing only my drawers, small breasts
pulled down by gravity, water spurts that slashed
and sizzled nude skin, split carrots
that thundered in the quiet, in the dead of night
I’d cut chives, brew saffron,
steam would dry out my eyes I recall

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March 16, 2018

Demimondaine

by A. Marie

Her midriff is a rumba, she skims the dance club’s lights, flitty beetle
with a hard shell and the taste of vegemite,

and the musk of a jaguar; of all these people crammed here
she has the strongest bite.

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March 13, 2018

I Can

by A. Marie

I cannot slice the fire,

I cannot cut the air,

I cannot slit the water,

but I can wound you.

I can.

February 20, 2018

Mermaids

by A. Marie

Men only love us
when they need us, women dip
their babies in, Nereids seeking
to scale their children in armor;
we, ugly selkies, melusines, mer
maids and lads who swim in
black waters, we cannot breathe
the light, merely claw and scrape
at the tops of waves, legs
greeting us with nets and offerings –

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February 14, 2018

Descending

by A. Marie

As a youth,
I knew not of crowded city streets,
the smells of compacted people,
all their schedules and goals and jostling.

I loved the woods,
and the lake waters, and the snow.
The many greens of Midsummer:
faded teal, fatty yellow, dark forest, zingy lime;
wreaths of chlorophylls dewed and shiny.

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February 8, 2018

Whistler

by A. Marie

Grasses bob, the trees press, expand; press, expand as lungs.
Loyal speaker, who spake the first murmurings – whistler at the window.
What’s that? Faces stack, knotholes of wisps in the darkness,
agape and wakeful just as I, truculent foreheads, lined lips, I’ve a wife
who died, is she there? Another unholy moaner outside, watchful.

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January 31, 2018

Depression

by A. Marie

The walls, they are shrinking,
a box I am in folded up,
heavy and looming
are the forges
making all this dark;

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January 24, 2018

The Big Black Storm

by A. Marie

Windstorms have battered my life for days, treble the rain,
tintinnabulation on the streets, a highway roaring like a sea of heaves
of grimness, mornings glamsy, murdered pink some dawns, strewn
with hoods and caps and umbrellas, and the grey swallows up
the goldfinches’ wings, the stellar jay sky, it’s hidden somewhere above.

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January 19, 2018

Untouched Earth

by A. Marie

It all falls away when building, the mind chiseling
A fever dream starting at the high, never getting down
To the low. And lower is the stair stepping away
Fast as a mare in full stride on open plain, whistling
Grasses notwithstanding, there’s a howl unheard.

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January 16, 2018

Alleviations

by A. Marie

Alleviate me, with a foghorn. Swept up compilations hound
and dog me desperately, so maybe extend a forlorn sound.

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January 12, 2018

Unsettled

by A. Marie

The misty ridden morning
waits like a pendulum in mid swing,
cross and blue, no longer alive,
leopard printed in death’s oily colors.

I untie the souls, with the windows
curving swards bent under the dewy dunes,
haled by dawn’s wet forehead,
no graves have been dug for this.

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January 10, 2018

Open

by A. Marie

Open your footpaths, for are we not all travelers of the road?
I say to death with your walled gardens, to death with your gates,
to death with all the looming towers of 900 rooms for a dozen men;
I say, let’s put back the prairie grass, let’s call home the deer
and have them roam, shoveling the forests with trodding hooves
so we may stroll behind their journeys, hearing trees purr.   

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January 8, 2018

Storms

by A. Marie

Storms have no vows to speak,
refineries of ejecta and longing,
streaked with insurmountable ugliness and beauty –
polarities is what I’m talking about.
The voyeur in love with chastity, the bones unhollow
and growing on skin as hair,
light as a panther walking on the promenade.
It’s all to me, quite riveting.

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December 31, 2017

Let’s Light Up

by A. Marie

Let’s begin anew, you and I; let’s decide
that the world is not meant for us, that meadows
beneath glass lakes, and mountains that move
and speak, and lions and elk that are of human
physique rule over us, but tend to lax off
their supreme duties; that you and I aren’t

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December 29, 2017

How Now should we Handle these Water Lilies?

by A. Marie

How now should we handle these water lilies?
One stone could break the sunset. I’ve a mind
to skip rocks, glide into a wade, feel beneath
with my bare feet, and leave you on the shore.
For night tiptoes, then jumps, weighing dusk in;
we’ve not much time, and this, is to my advantage.
In love, woman are ahead, and men behind; as luck
would have it, I am to be far beyond reach. I think
I may dunk into the blooms atop, and like a seabird
sail under you, as breaths waft alow heavy eyes.
Though by your height, your breath this late eve
has a clear path straight to my soul’s window.

December 26, 2017

At 2 p.m. I rise, and at 5 a.m. I sleep

by A. Marie

Lit, a gaslamp as a sun,
this is the star we have, here,
those of us of the night,
and lately, we have the quiet,
but it is not always so,
for phantoms sometimes eek
from out of mourning souls,
and walk down the roads,
with sways, and heavy heels.

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December 15, 2017

Make Me Believe

by A. Marie

It is astonishment only that holds me;
you brandished your weakness, and tried to slay me,
and now you are bent in your knees.

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December 11, 2017

Soldiers

by A. Marie

And he blows his head open, because he is in the army; he does not
want to go back. He makes it clear.

I was his friend, when he was alive and in high school.
I am his friend again, now that he is gone and fading.

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December 10, 2017

I’ve A Friend Called Firefly

by A. Marie

I’ve a friend I call Firefly, for reasons I’ve explained,
and we take nightly walks together,
but mostly in dreams.

We wax and wane the philosophical, two cerebral beetles
stepping lively over the cobblestone,
making deliberation of the gods of Serendipity, Accident, Judgement,
lifting up our hands to brush the coniferous needles
pushed to their limits by the cold autumn
now wintered.

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December 6, 2017

Lunar Sea

by A. Marie

So are the seas, bright even in this darkness,
Bright like eyes, who’ve not succumb to death,
With lights still inside, peering from the soul;
This is the ocean, and I linger by her, a ghost.

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October 4, 2017

The Woodland

by A. Marie

I am inferior. Let me say it.

Let it roll on my tongue, get pressed to my inner cheek, let it
fall out to the earth, let the solar rays shine on it,
the rain hammer over it,
the soil encapsulate it,
have it arise.

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September 7, 2017

Clap

by A. Marie

On the banks of religion, I ponder the propensity of holy silences. Its how flow.

Why search with feet and hands, eyes and ears and nose

for a formless revelation, for a voice, or sound,
that is Never, ever nebulous and blank, that hadn’t considered we men and women
would write its noiseless musings, would sketch and paint, stain glass,

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September 1, 2017

Towers

by A. Marie

The towers, though goliath and glinting
all look the same, with four sides, four thousand windows,
four hundred workers all at their desks, clattering, and stretching

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August 30, 2017

Wet Feet Are Part Of Life

by A. Marie

Worry about me later,
for barbarians are coming over the hills,
carrying long pikes and angry words,
searching for reasoning they do not possess.

My sleepless nights are a gene inside me,
melatonin leached from my skin,
my fascination with the moon, my dark monarch
taking flight to greet the lamps lighted.

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