Archive for ‘Marie’

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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August 24, 2017

My Friend and Her Anxiety

by A. Marie

Over and over on a Ferris wheel, she will not come down,
have her meal, will not admit that she is afraid
that the contraption revolving around her heart may one day die.

She’d rather sit there, all hours, observe the heights
and the tops of towers, reach her fingertips up as she drops
to brush the illusions, feel the felt and wool of a god’s eyelash
she dreamt of the night before.

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August 18, 2017

I Am Not In Love With Anyone

by A. Marie

I am not in love with anyone. Pablo Neruda, Nikki Giovanni,
Shakespeare, and all his fair women, dressed in men’s robes,
have nothing on me.

Flinty, unyielding; that is what they called me.
No tree could brace against my wind.
In my savage silence, I could sabotage all lovers’ din;
heavy, and unmatchable, though, I strike a rock in orange brightness.

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August 2, 2017

While Alive

by A. Marie

When we fall down, when we land, when we lay
upon the bedrock, do we look up? Or do we close
our eyes, and make do, roll the dirt around us,
invite the insects to have discussion, play with god;

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August 1, 2017

In Days And Dreams

by A. Marie

Follow, and step, and step,
the stepwells of India, imagine the high sun

arcing upon the bare back of an old god, a woman
peeling off the strips of yellow light, and eating them
like pieces of an orange.

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July 23, 2017

Overthrow

by A. Marie

Winch upon waking; the night is not gone.
Harangue at your terrors that sweep along the walls.
Make a shotgun of your pillow, throw lightning at the mirror.
What would the darkness have of you? Mass marketer of
fears, has aligned itself with your cheek, weaving your spittle
into the phantom.

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July 14, 2017

That’s all

by A. Marie

Two legs, that are columns, your roof of bone, blood, sinew,
housing your pantheon, your gods that were born from burnt meals,
falls off your bicycle, windows you leapt from, drainpipes
slid down, hearts your broke with unkind words, papers you tore
and launched off bridges you walked
in the night.

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July 7, 2017

Raising Lazarus

by A. Marie

Some say Jesus laid with Lazarus
the way turtle doves press together;

I am not one to doubt, love.

As I lay with women, a woman
in my own right, I am confronted
with a graphic depiction of a man and a woman in sex,
conceiving Kahlil Gibran, Galileo Galilee,
Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Marie Curie,
Hasan Ibn al-Haytham, like points of light.

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July 3, 2017

Where Are The Clocks?

by A. Marie

Where have all the clocks gone?
I cannot tell the time,

not without one strapped to my wrist,
or that rectangular block
producing radiation by my thigh.

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June 29, 2017

We Shattered Our Faith in the Lightning

by A. Marie

From this angle, you say, the Holy Ghost
looks like an ibex, sauntering its way down the slope,
folding paper, in its coal hooves,
slitting the white fish belly
of the mist.

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June 25, 2017

Lines

by A. Marie

Pieces of me didn’t break. Socks I didn’t roll, shirts
I didn’t fold. Hardly limbed, I carried
each cup of malice in my clenched teeth, and scoured lands
on ten quadrillion purring wheels, a wave of
stampeding machinery, throwing up trees.

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June 18, 2017

Slow(er)

by A. Marie

As we walk our backs are low, our hearts pointing into our guts,
roll and hardened into seashells, gripped inside, the soft parts threatening
to spill onto the carpet.

We are not being defeated by malice – just absent-minded greed.
The foundation is removed brick by brick beneath our reddened soles.

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June 7, 2017

Last Gate

by A. Marie

I know that I forgot to love you.
I know that I forgot to sew back on the sleeve.
I know that the arm that is now bare, and bears the marks,
forgot to extend, grasp, and lift he.

I am aware that I was born.
I am aware I am less than what was allotted to me.
I am aware that I caused great harm,
that I never granted explanation to she.

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