Archive for ‘Marie’

May 29, 2017

Up Boy

by A. Marie

Up he is, among the peaks and towers and airliners and birds,
a ballooning mind, teetering and spry, leaping, lurching,
high, strung out as wire, conversing with the pushmi-pullyu
of the times, and hollering out equations laced in lies, too
ropey, thinly boned, composed of an avian sweater knitted
by his father who fashioned him a helmet made of toothpicks,
he throws fits, says he had a dream he never had a mother,

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May 23, 2017

Coffee With A Side Of Pining

by A. Marie

Sleuth of my loins keeps himself to the doings of sudden street crossings,
most irregular comings and goings, having an epiphany
at the ferry, realizing that he must go right now, hurry off to
dream of me, write visions of me, lay in a bed of uncomfortable need
for me, address my shadow, confess his most sinful thoughts to my coat
I left hanging on his peg by his doorway, his collar constantly tightening,
his hands constantly needing unwinding, his armpits

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May 16, 2017

Heronswood

by A. Marie

I can walk the world in the Heronswood,
I can walk and talk with the horticulturists
and the nature gods. I can meet with cultures
I never knew, the Thalictrum, the Fuchsia,
the Phlox, the Hakonechloa. With my fingers
I can brush the Bishop’s Hat, with my toes

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April 27, 2017

New Life

by A. Marie

There is one leg left

and there she wobbles.

Weak filly tumbling towards
new swells, feverish

rebirth, yanking at her sinews,
eager to move for the

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April 25, 2017

A Short Story About Us After They’ve Gone

by A. Marie

She is a winged doe, plodding along the kitchen tile,
hither/thither clipping orchids, melting wax, reaching out
to catch the tray of flutes before it falls—
but it falls, makes such a racket, cacophony of clattering
she curses, spouts a string of psalms and esoteric verses,
kicks the chunks of shards and tires her feet,
shoves it in a corner and forgets about it until the night,
slings the cupboards open and demands I climb
to the tippy-most tower where her grandfather’s
old boozy glassware has waited five decades to be touched,

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April 14, 2017

Of Chincoteague and Longing

by A. Marie

You have the makings
Of a mustang, long legs

And long neck. Veins
That bulge in the noontime,

Blue as sapphire under
Moonlight. Your auburn mane

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April 11, 2017

The Lonely Stair

by A. Marie

At its height aloneness is the pale star.

So far, and distant, when the light at last reaches our eye
it is one hundred years gone.

I act accordingly,
(my god is an outlier god)
when all are in rise,
I must fall, when all are out walking, I must be sitting,
when all are descending, I must ascend, for when the powers tied
the strings, I was not to be found at my station along the line.

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April 4, 2017

Omissions

by A. Marie

If you don’t wish to know, why do you
slip, slide under closed doors, take to

shadows, slither, hook-line-sinker-er into
the coat-rack with eyes wide, ears hungry;

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March 24, 2017

What We Are

by A. Marie

We are heads clacking together,
Stiff blades that clash and shatter we are
Sparking,
Flint and rock into fire,
We are two wolves left howling at the moon.

We are a rising of a wave
And the shatter,
We move with the seasons and with
The whales,
We are thighs arching, napes cracking,
We are bones that have yet to die.

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March 16, 2017

Tall

by A. Marie

It is eleven, and we are the early night.
Daddy hasn’t forgiven our existence yet,
Daddy hasn’t gotten out of the car,
Daddy doesn’t remember how to change a tire,
Daddy doesn’t love us at all;
Mommy won’t come outside into the daylight,
Mommy won’t wander the halls until we sleep,
Mommy doesn’t remember how to drink wine
Without spending the next 24 hours dreaming.

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March 7, 2017

The Wheel

by A. Marie

Inside this cir – cle, ten billion hands are pushing,
wheeling us around the universe,
searching for the light.

We have the torches, but the stars
we are not yet alighting, our agency stunted
by the promises of a silent creator.

From my window, I am watching the spectacle;
it is a ring of fire, plowing over the land,
a racing bright wind, burning and eating.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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,

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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.

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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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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