spaghetti strap-sized scoldinggirls used to get sent home fortheir sunburnt shoulders why would we make it so easy to oglewhy would we make it so worth looking at how often were we taught thatsomeone else’s wandering gazewas our fault
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If you’re not reading Elle, perhaps you should be. This poem is a gut-punch and will remain with me for quite some time.
Let it marinate. It’ll stick with you too.
my blood can’t handle any more apologies, insistence on the right to celebrate genocide…
Thanksgiving Eve: A Poem
A poem by the lovely Jennifer Patino. Let it sink in. Allow it to marinate for a moment in your bones. However you spend this day, I hope you do it safely and with more awareness than you should probably have.
Please go to the original poem to “like” and “comment.” Her words deserve that. Peace and blessings.
Sometimes, a piece of poetry hits you ever so subtly right in the gut. Devika Mathur’s words do that often. Please visit the original poem to like and comment as well.
I know of a lady in whitewith a mouth full of promises,spreading a nocturnal path of flowers,like a longed kiss above the eye,a lady that slips in my chest,within the small rim of my fist,a sniff so wild, a mouth that dwells on mountains moist.a lady with a potato peel,with cardigans and wool on […]
lady in white
Are you eating? The taste may be blood or bread or poison. A poison as another word for kindness.It is of a kind that when counted under fingersleaves the empty bellyfull, leading the tongue from sand.Kneading the open throat till dry,the hunger, to drown. Are you eaten? Do you feed the walls,the walls that, in […]
Black Apple
You’ll be happy you visited. Trust me. His work in unique and powerful.
Sandy has such an intuitive and forthright mind. She’s also quite bold in her delivery and I love her writing for these things. I read this poem and I can see the imagery, feel the intensity, and respect the ending. It connects. She creates connection.
Please visit the original post to comment and like. ❤
As dawn breaks
over another day of uncertainty
silent comes the moth unbidden
from the cornered shadows
of my bedroom
frantic wings flee the dark.
I see not an intruder but
a fateful refugee
perhaps sent to probe
the virtuous nature
of a heart flush with fortune.
I cup my hands gently
around the winged creature
knowing it would be far less
trouble to drop it
in the toilet
into a watery grave,
it’s only a moth, after all.
Yet its wings
beat against my palms
not with a threat
but with a plea;
our connection is complete
in this moment
the moth and me
need only one thing — mercy
Sandy Knight, ©2020 All rights reserved.
