the sun’s heatis unrelentingup and downthe boat bobswaiting for hair, scales, and finsto break the surface
flat on my back, my eyes opento darkness, I situp quickly, then freeze, feelingthe boat rock and shift the air is heavywith wails and groans, the closestweighted cries of grief arms reach out of black waterstretch towards the boatfingers scraping against woodgrips too weak to hold the riverbank loomsa fiery orange shorethen an endless gloom
the night was stained black
Originally posted on Rust Belt Girl:
One of my favorite shots of my boys (age 6) and me (not age 6) When I was on bed-rest, hugely pregnant with my twin boys, I did what I do in any anxiety-producing situation, especially one that would have me lying on my side for three months: I read. In addition to the care-and-feeding-of-babies books, I read about the raising of boys into men, the emotional aspects and the pitfalls to avoid. In my reading, I found prevalent boy-myths to steer clear of (in life, not in writing–myths are fun there, but more on that in a bit). Two common ones: boy as animal (he simply can’t be good); and boy as prince (he can do no wrong, no matter how he tries). Once I delivered my boys into the world, I became uber-focused not on their boyhood but on their infant hood–a precarious time made more precarious by sleep deprivation (mine, not theirs). “Your job is to keep them alive,” the pediatrician said. (If that sounds dire…
Really appreciate seeing my piece Queen of Cups posted on Freeverse Revolution yesterday. Be sure to visit them and check out some of the other fantastic poets featured!
Originally posted on Heretics, Lovers, and Madmen:
The elven knight went riding with banners alizarin as berries in snow, his face wan, lovesick longing. Haunting his dreams was a snow-laden lass, fair as a dying rose, iced into clarity by shattered glass. In twos, in threes, went the Faerie Court, bells on toes, Gabriel’s Hounds baying in the wasted harrow, to humble hut the elf knight goes. “Oh but who art thou, fair visitor?” said the peasant girl, her hair gray gold, her eyes pale, lips a frostbite plum. The elven knight let his bridle down, and from his pockets he’s taken an oath ring, and on bended knee he’s gone. She was poverty-light, bird bones, high small breasts, and she said “Twas better bread you gave me, fair elf.” “I have no use for gold, to grow cold and old with the dead in fairy mounds.” “I have no use for silver, no use for jewels, you cannot eat stone outside the fairy realms.” “I have…