Daisy, Life, Moving, Photographs, Poetry from The Well

Allergic to the New Apartment

We sniffle

I press my face into

milky white tissues

 

The sterile ceremony

a fluttering pile

towers toward the ceiling

 

Meanwhile she rubs her face

across every patch

of carpet

 

Dirt and fuzz

cling to her sticky nose

for a free ride

 

We sneeze

I sigh in misery

feet dragging

 

She licks my face

sharing dusty kisses

just glad to be home

girly

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Mind, Photographs, Poetry from The Well

Swing the Sun

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You can’t fool me,

icy eyes (heart of glass),

I see your dry hair beneath the mist

I swim inside the hot blood funneling to your

brain and if I must

I will drag through clumps of snow

cased in ice —

I will swing the sun around

so you can crawl over baby

blades

of

grass —

 

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Poetry from The Well, Writing

I turn to the sun

From Gizmag.com

I turn to the sun

wishing to be still and patient

as a candle that holds

packed in its weight

spirals and spirals

of perfumed air

that long to dance skyward

 

Oh to be lit

quick and easy

as the candle’s wick

 

To be cleanly contained

in a pretty jar

ready to cast a glow

across any wall

 

Instead I seep sideways

a puddle freshly chilled

after late summer’s rain

 

At least I’ve caught

this greasy rainbow

to steal light from the sun

 

It ripples in your eyes

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Poetry from The Well

The Shape of the Place

Books stand steady in ragged towers

across the living room;

Behind them naked walls stare

pointedly at our new faces.

Cobwebs ripple from the corners of rooms

casting even grayer shadows,

relics of past lives.

The carpet’s tidy streaks beckon

our feet to leave prints trailing

up and down the halls.

Our stuff molds to the shape

of the place, but we’re quiet

as strangers in a foreign church.

Empty boxes bend together, a layered

tribute to past homes. The pearly white

mattress sinks into the carpet,

happy to be anywhere.

There’s nowhere to sit but the dining room

table, set with placemats and floral cloth napkins

and hot coffee, steaming and warming up the place.

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Poetry from The Well

whether here or there

I followed you

then I hid you

 

kept my back near the outskirts

by all the ways out

 

Couldn’t stick to the speed

of your orbit

 

so here I go – floating off –

            planet alone –

farther away – I mourn –

            what it means to be inside –

your hive –

 

from here I hear

happy laughter gushing

like a waterfall

 

whether here or there

 

it remains to be seen

 

if I remain to be seen

Otaki 037

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