First We are all thinking of Ukraine we are all wearing gold and blue we are translating this to Ukrainian Google translate and back to English again Strange English strange Ukrainian Strange dreams Lumps littering Bucha’s streets Lumps littering evacuation routes Strange language Strange lumps And this swelling need —the whisper, the wind across the … Continue reading Washing Language | Миття мови | Tongue washing
Category: poetry
FIFTEENTH
This kiss, then.Now and then, forgotten. This rain washing, time.Remembered in echoing moments.This lost, mad, wild haired king, moans - winds low-bellied, deep in brush.A crucified stag.The madman nailed and hung himselfagainagainandagainNebuchadnezzar growling, trapped in brambles, hanging, engorged, wild eyed.Ready. Resigned.Willing.
Fourteen
King Ram, a brideless exile, stalked by shades in the silent wood.Set, to rip a godinto 14 perfect pieces, reverentlywithin the Minotaur’s gates.Hot bull’s breathupon a shoulder, the burning teeth and limbs entwining.Now lifting an acacia lance, bodies unformed and reforming.Bull’s lusty urges, birthing onethe gift received, the life unfolding.The life unfolded, failing.The heated kiss, … Continue reading Fourteen
Thirteenth
The broadened view, an owl winging This… life. coasting shadow dark dappling a whitened meadow. Echo across cold earth, time, your voice… This reminder… this sudden kiss "Always. You know this."
In the Fall
And in the fall we go raking,bamboo-toothed tools ripping up the dry grass,sweeping leaves that crackle when dry -black spots amongst the hues of red and yellow,the camouflage of New England hills and dalesrustling under feet. And in the fall we go burning,burning,burning -the pits and chimneysturning seeds, water, earthinto heat, soot, blowing ash. And … Continue reading In the Fall
The Ninth
This body, your muted cries -a drying river splitting deep woods,a lowering babble over rounded pebbles.The doe lowering her head, finds dry rock,the rasping tongue on unforgiving stone. Grey clouds that give no respite -your neck in memory, fevered dreams -arching back and forth, hair whipping.Your knees bent alongside rising hips,the fading roar of a … Continue reading The Ninth
White Heron
Sinuous shadows in the wetcast by curving neck,the full breast,long legs that reach deep,reach intothe water's edge. Obsidian eyesbottomless, this tunnel without end,two discsed night skieswith stars dappling the dark,the whorl of worlds and sun,the fathomless,soundless journey. The twin nights seeking motion,hunting, searching, yearning. Rocky shore,slow filling harbor -a mirror capturing distorted grace,clouds doubled,scudding across … Continue reading White Heron
On Ragged Mountain
There's a luxury - a pleasure really, it's that more not like the joy of an avocado (not to dismiss that joy, sliding along the skin, opening the ripe fruit to eager hands, fingers sliding into flesh to scoop and taste and slip along the tongue) No, not that but the ecstasy of the familiar, … Continue reading On Ragged Mountain
The Answer
There was a wind winding down from star to sea, whipping along eastern ranges, whispering strange words in accented syllables, a Romanian Shakespearean rag, sometimes humming something from The Weekend. Sometimes a muse must be answered. There were scrubs worn in the imaging room, fancy dress for after, the hint of musk on curving neck … Continue reading The Answer
Wrapping Backwards
Something about losing small pieces - an errant tooth, the color in my hair, the smell of autumn as father held my hand, fading vision / a kidney butchered under failing hands, and time a butterfly flapping backward through time, wrapping itself in strands fading memories wandering banter stolen kisses amongst the shrubbery, the illicit … Continue reading Wrapping Backwards
Writer Moe 