I listen to discordant tones

under a technicolor sky.

A bird whistles inside.

A hush falls

as does the tent.

I wonder why?

I lie next to the frog song of the pond,

beneath the willow tree

that sways and creaks against a gentle

breeze threatening to turn storm. I tremble

like the falling leaves

around me, grit and grind my teeth

into sandpapered wooden stumps.

I pull the silence closer

while it points its heavy blade

to the hollow of my throat

and tells me,

“Hush,” in what could only be

the tone of a lover. I fear that no one

will hear me,

or that if they do, my cries will be

heralded as a warning

when it is pain it truly holds

and holds out to be inspected.

I am an insect beneath a microscope

while all that is heard

is a coyote’s cry as dusk falls. And if I were

indeed the coyote,

it would be the farmer who stalks.

Not I.

returning to the brick-walled dampness of that place

can leave you with a sense of dread

akin to that of waiting for an age-old friend

to return a call you never gave them

while you peer into their eyes in the hallway,

hopeful,

but complete strangers now,

for neither knows the other

or the shiver down your shoulders

that creeps behind your eyes

and around the front of your temples

during the cold of the early morning,

sipping coffee and leaning against the counter

in anticipation

of someone waking up

to the creaking of the steps

or the rapid pounding of your heartbeat

and the breaking of the mug that s t i n g s  your fingertips

so when the last bell rings its song

a mournful sound for all to hear

don't forget the building

for it is a warning sign, you see

to stay away from the cold and dead

d r i p s

of that damp brick-walled building you used to love

death lies there

#poetry

we meet at a crossroads

them and i

with blades of grass

glittering in the hazy

morning dew

the street itself

is a great black void

a gaping maw

that wishes to swallow us whole

they say my eyes

are something dead

and gray

and sad

i say where mine

are dead,

theirs are in-between

glowing stars

against a grainy blue night

when the only stars you can see

are the ones that have already

faded

the devil is not them

and the devil is not me

but tonight,

we have decided on a deal

there sits a wall made

of glass

with sharp-cut edges

and promises not yet

made

when the honey leaks out from

the sky

the coyotes will swallow

my eyes

and together,

we will shatter

their wall

promises are made

to be broken,

after all

#poetry

Her baby-soft hands curled into the waves like they’d found a new home. The waves embraced her in return, a heavy wool blanket to warm her still aching heart.

She hadn’t meant to fall in. Not truly.

One moment, she was listening to the sound of crashing water upon the beach, and watching the seagulls swoop by as they called to one another. Her feet were dangled precariously on the edge of the cliffside as she swung her legs, back and forth. It was the end of another day when last droplets of sun warmed her face and spattered against the purple hues of an incoming night sky. The stars winked into existence.

And then?

A hard shove to her back sent her tumbling down into the rocky shores. A sharp snap! was all that she heard before the dark and the cold washed over her. Her blood swirled into the waters and at 9:41pm on a Friday afternoon, 6-year-old Roslyn Pepper passed away.

But at 9:43pm on that very same afternoon, she came back to life.

It started with a kiss to her forehead, as all good things do, and slowly but surely, feeling crept along the edges of her fingertips.

“Hush,” a voice said, “Just breathe, darling. I know it’s a bit tricky at first, but breathe.”

As she opened her eyes, Roslyn breathed. She breathed in through the gills in her sides, and drank up the sight of her beautiful mother. One she had not seen in many months. Missing.

“I missed you,” Roslyn gasped, “Where have you been?”

Her mother smiled a smile full of sharp teeth and brand new secrets, “I’ve been waiting for you, my dear. I’m sure you’re hungry. It’s past your dinnertime.”

Roslyn nodded, “Yes, papa forgot to feed me.” Again.

“Well, then let me show you where to get a snack around here. You remember that song I taught you, right?"

“Yes, I do,” Roslyn nodded with tears in here eyes. They were swept away by the waves. The song had been a lullaby, one her mama taught her before she’d gone missing. Of course she remembered it.

Roslyn’s mother smiled another secret smile. Only this one seemed sweeter, “Good, my dear. We’re going to need it.”

It was only then that Roslyn noticed the group of women behind her mama. Ones with tails, to match their own. They, too, had secret little smiles.

She really hadn’t meant to fall in. Not truly.

But, she soon became glad that she had.

After all, family should stick together.

It is July among the corn fields. But no matter, for pumpkin season begins in summer. You can feel them Watching You.

Now, you keep your gaze out of the corners of your eyes as you try not to watch them back. They are not impatient. They will wait. It is only a matter of time before you make a mistake, and when that happens they will be there for you.

So squeeze your eyes shut and forget, little one. They need you to forget.

Yes, it is only a matter of time.

one day i found

a day-old corpse

with a wide and gaping mouth

it grabbed onto me

and held on tight

with its spiderweb-finger bones

(dusty home, never roam)

it bit my skin

with beetle-bug teeth

big ol' teeth

(need to breathe)

and as the corpse rose,

i fell down

swallowed by the strawberry-soda waves

because bad things happen

to those who misbehave

(at least on the day

they find their victims)

don't bury bodies

in the water

#poetry

the blue ink of glowing

stretched-grin and peppermint-gin

moon

mixes in with the

dusty cobweb and

day-before-a-funeral

gloom

your words were spoken

in a red-mouthed

green-juice kind of

raspy-hairspray voice

now which makes me think

of the coffee-smelling

burning photograph

kind of day that it’s been

i liked you for

your striped face

and out-of-place

hazy pink daydreams

because the color of your hair

smelled

like an hour-old cup of

tea

and so i look closely at your

ashes

through the dewdrops

on my lashes

and breathe in

the honey-butter sunshine

to you i will say this once

and only once:

i’ll miss you dearly,

love of mine

#poetry #poems #grief