and chasing trains,
the smell of the tracks
beneath that one rainbow
who the hell can see forever
I think of you,
I respond to your letters,
I picture you across
the ocean, painting houses
to get by on your trek across
the continent with your love.
I picture you gardening–
maybe Mexican Paintbrush?
soil and seeds in your hands—hands
I’ve held while leaping into
unknown waters, our handshake.
I read your search for yourself,
and your courage to find it,
You were always fearless.
It wasn’t the world that
That was a thing we
had in common but didn’t know it—
what frightened us
In dark corners across the globe
facing down hell
in shacks and hospitals
I read your eloquent graffiti
you wrote in a rush,
and I was there hovering
over your breaking heart
as you held mine
I heard from someone
you’re still beautiful
See, you started living
from the outside in—
you grabbed that great big
old world in your arms
squeezing it until you hugged
A thank you to Boston Poetry Magazine for publishing my two poems “Stitchings” and “Undercurrent” –much love!
It is a sunny afternoon, the light coming in yellow through her curtains that cut through the smoke. Cat Stevens feels like water inside my soul and then she switches it to Bread and hands me a dust rag. I dance across the green and brown carpet squares; I wipe the hazy walls, the stiff…
It was my third year in college when I first heard the term string theory. I remember moving forward into what he’d say next, and as the professor strolled over quantum physics and how this theory could explain all the forces of nature— what it could reveal, the dark mysteries it could possess— I know…
The journal at my bedside. I stare at the white winter light coming though the double-paned glass and crystal dust drifts in empty air. The nurse comes in her alcohol and starched scrubs tells me to shower. Pills come in paper cups Paper ornaments on the Christmas tree so we can’t harm ourselves. The journal…
While doing the reading for Week 4, something became clear to me. This was all going way over my head. Carl Jung had some heavy theories about Creativity and the psyche, injected with concepts about the imagination and the human consciousness. Some additional research would be needed to fully understand Jung’s intricate models of the psyche. What I found particularly interesting was Jung’s theory on the human unconscious. Carl Jung was a Freudian Analysis, and actually worked closely with Freud. They significantly influenced each other’s theories about the human psyche. In particular they agreed that all aspects of the human…
EB-125 I think I’m seeing white birds white birds scattering away from my window, out there in the cold January, their wings sound, from here, like sheets– my grandmother’s white sheets– on the line in June. The light coming in is white. Color? Or space? Like the space we can never fill. Like the start…
I have lost the need to be someone. It’s strange that when You have one piece left of so many selves And it breaks, shattering your familiar reflection, You–annihilated in the howling– and a certain amount of time will stop mattering as it goes on, and You pool into something–a fine new liquid– black beneath…
Share your poetry and creativity over at Dverse Poets Pub. I am basing my poem off of a drawing I’ve been working on. Stitches You’re in my ribcage I turn my love to wreck it let you gather up the pieces and I watch you fall from my fists where I held you hard and close because what is the difference anyway between madness and hunger I want you to walk up and bite me stick your words inside me and twist them all around cover up my mouth make my mind unable to find my will
Originally posted on Boston Poetry Magazine:
by Mike Jewett Outside in the cold darkness, neck craned toward Orion’s belt waiting for streaks across the sky. Leonids passing by, your name orbits in my mouth like planetary moons; shooting stars reflecting the past in your eyes.
STITCHING You’re in my ribcage I turn my love to wreck it all you try to gather up the pieces and I watch you fall from my fists where I held you hard and close because what is the difference anyway between madness and hunger I want you to walk up and bite me stick…
Frigg Magazine, Fall 2014 <——click the link!
Originally posted on Shut Up, Shani!:
The pop and snap of prescription pill bottles, swallow, light, inhale, scrape of the chair, cluster of tap-tap-taps on the keys, a silence beyond this room, beyond this wall I can almost hear you—the soil sifting, seeds spreading out, dry in your palm; folds of light robes around you…