Dusk on an autumn afternoon Leaves tumble from frail limbs Winter forms in a crimson womb
September ebbs and flows but winter ‘s hand cuts the day much too soon
As morning comes with jagged teeth Sucking from the sullen boughs
––––––––––––– “I write because of what I feel when I read another moving piece of work. I would love to have this impact on someone else. I feel there needs to be more profound moments through poetry.” – the writer
Don’t be sad. I remember that once you were golden. Now the gold has darkened to sepia but sometimes still the light shines through in flashes of the old gold when you remember. Don’t be sad. I still remember the gold and nothing lasts for ever not even memories.
––––––––––––– “I write to let the words escape.” – the writer
God of love, God of truth, God of health, God of wisdom. (but fuck all of them. My prayers have gone unanswered.)
Instead, I find myself praying at the alter for God of good teeth, God of skincare, God of consistent, joyful movement. God to relax my patience, God to bring mental clarity, God of productivity. God of budget sense, God of good HR benefits, God to free me of cooking and cleaning.
Dear God: heal me and send God to believe in me when nobody else can.
–––––––––––– “I write because I don’t know who I’d be if I didn’t.” – the writer
I keep running along a trail, down a narrow path, up a steep hill, around a high school track, jogging and sprinting, I need to run fast, counting my hours, minutes, and seconds on a stopwatch.
Don’t want to creep along, crawling like an infant in a loose-fitting diaper, who doesn’t know the difference from a 10K and a 100-meter.
I run to elude old age, keep my body slim and toned, to be a super-flash extraordinaire that nobody’s going to catch Like a lightning bolt from the sky, I move through a slow-paced world, across the final finish line.
“I write to document the stories in my head.” – the writer
I wondered what they were thinking, all those grinning people standing around him taking their selfies. I wondered what he was thinking but I don’t think they cared or even noticed that he looked strained as if he had a problem, looked uncomfortable as if perched on the edge of a toilet straining with effort. Perhaps that was his problem, ideas don’t come when you strain, they float into your head dreamlike glowing gold as you stretch out your arms into infinity dreamlike, glowing gold, with no one around to take selfies.