Late August, Early Harvest

Of the bounds of silver branches waned
           And the flocks of who calls glory
                      To the empty, beckoned second tough
                                 Of days and weeks gone morning
                                      Why rushing winds do seldom come
                                                 To brush the ears gone blooming
                                                            And wipe with farce their gentle wars
                                                            Of hands so cruelly combing
                                                  To gather in my arms this years’ fruitful
                                                  harvest coming
                                 And count the number of months gone weary from
                                 waiting for her humming
                           Why rushing breeze do seldom past
                   And why flocks of glories steady
           To settle down on her evening gown
Of silver branches, peeled and ready

Aftermath of A God’s World

You’re warm like summer and silky as cream

Slipping past my fingertips

As I raise you above your planet

And spill you back to whence you came

You are the sand that caresses my palms

And I feel every grain

I value every creature, every child that is mine

From the empty-eyed doe to the bow legged goat

Lovingly, I whisper life into their lungs and light into their minds

Bite me all you like, I shall never harm you

But bring destruction upon yourselves, that is when I cannot save you

You are hot like the summer and white as sour milk

The pearly bones of your existence slip past my fingertips

As you are risen above your planet

And crushed inside my palm

And spilled back to whence you came


This is a re-post from my Instagram. I felt that all poetry should eventually find its way back home to here, no matter where they are first birthed.

Child of Sweeping Fire and Summer Echoes

She was fierce as feral flames, fangs without the jaw, a burning star, a speeding car, sounds of fire crackles and familiar music. Each strand of hair upon her head held a story doused in color, her eyes hypnotic and starving for every experience this world can offer her.

Each turn of the Sun was a metamorphosis and every peek of the Moon a chance to howl and scream into the night, a grin spread wide.

Summer and sand favored her heels, leaving dusty hot imprints on the balls of her feet. Across the heat, as fast as air can bring her, she rushes towards unfamiliar depths, nearly fearless of the blue, nearly fearless to die.

Scars on her elbows and knees and palms would sink in salted water and leave peeled off bandages as a path to follow later on.

The child of Sweeping fire and Summer Echoes, may your days in the sun be ever hot and bright. And as you walk past the shimmering shores and muggy mid-day fog, may the fish guide you from the sea as well as up above.

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