Tag: original poetry
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Mother With Daughter, 2001
In May of 2001 I experienced a full-term stillbirth, laboring with my first daughter, Aislinn Maeve, who died of heart disease with a hole in her left vertricle. I was lucky that the doctor could provide a reason for her death, as I know that the cause of death remains a mystery in so many…
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Black Locust Road
When Nature needs to speak, she will/ Reach into her washbag of wet roots/ Pull back handfuls of filberts, gambol/ The dice down a road/ Lined with Black Locust trees
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Bloom’s End
I tried to live at the top of that tree In twigs, no matter the frailty The green blaze, a din of temporality Swept through with reserve I fell to the trunk The spine of an open book Roofed over my heart: The Return of the Native Eustacia Vye’s heart and mine Loosed in Egdon…
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Unheimlich
A queer thing about that house: There are no birds there, or enough To bicker over whether it’s alive Its windows blush flaxen in the hours Between 2 and 4 With a radiance peculiar, familiar Any man walking by will press his cheek to the pane Just to feel the thrilling dissonance, The paradox of…
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When I Think of Trees
When I think of us I think of trees Grounded and rooted and reaching Up into the Unknown to know We live in the present but still dream Green and vibrant and feathered Of a home crafted of our woods intermingled Cork and Beech and Birch, perhaps The striation and silk, strain and surrender Of…
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Requisite
Anything but hunger — ing After all of this Appetite Has settled Down debris, be seated Pillage and core Rows upon rows of deserted homes Wanting kin Each Friday evening set to burn But too empty to catch, quite Human hunger in the Autumn Is better than none For anything Why dreaming…
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Arboretum
Beneath the canopy of a weeping Beech Wearing its molten roots like a dress Its thin skin carved into with names of elapsed loves Lump torso bowed and overthrown but held by metal crutches Ordained by some idealistic Harvard undergraduate Even the most coached head Cannot help but to fall to the stomach as if…
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The Red Armchair, By Picasso
Seventy fingers entwined / Resting on my manifold thighs / Pointing all directions / Mostly behind
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