Monthly Archives: November 2013

For what dies before it’s born

for all of us My country is cold, with knifed mountains that tear the old lace of saudade, that word born where the Mediterranean kisses the southern coast of Europe; as far from where I stand as you are.  These feelings … Continue reading

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what is pasta (the staff of life, or the book of linguine)

naming the civil war depends on which side of the crust you stand on what you mean by macaroni and what is bread what is bread flour what is breadth first search what is pasta made of primavera bolognese pastafarianism: … Continue reading

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Exhibit A

We are proof, laddered templates climbing not to heaven but realization I can understand but never define this holy stretching under all science we can sequence the random: my son’s sky eyes my daughter’s chin the scythe of her smile … Continue reading

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I sing dandelion seeds

My chrysanthemum/daisy/buttercup bouquet in a shoebox is a love poem.  I open it for you, smiling, but you see only the yellows, not the asters that are my eyes.  I sing dandelion seeds, each note touching your face.  You brush … Continue reading

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Keriah

There are mornings whose blues are unspeakable, whose yellows are far too dandelion to dilute under sun. You should have died in November. when loss spins a darker color wheel, those reds rotting to brown. I could paint longing siphoned to … Continue reading

Posted in New Free Verse | Tagged , , , , | 40 Comments