Memory
Tipping Point
Tipping point
I choose to lean
toward
Quiet
Moon
Stars
The wash of night
The cat claiming my lap to
Sink into sleep
No room at this inn for
Running around
That’s enough of that
Only I am warm enough
Shaped enough
Right enough
To be his bed
He claims
And sleeps
I lean
Toward quiet
Beverly Delidow
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Stanzas of grief (II)
hollow. not a word,
nor a sound, syllable, sigh.
an empty vessel
Helena Roth
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Sky King
Jayashree Krishnan
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Inheritance
you will know by the dog
walking me on a leash
that I am no witch
no fan of brooms
or flying
my pots are All Clad
scrubbed clean
and though i prefer
a gnarled wooden spoon
stained smooth from a thousand brews
you will know
from the neatly appointed kitchen
with matching knobs
no witch
lives here
my hair…
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Jennifer Hole
#Noticing-s
Noticing #1 [volume]
We were the last ones to arrive. Hungry of bodies that we had seen before but had not touched. Thirsty of smiles with volume. The volume of more than bi-dimensional experiences, the volume of textures that describes one another in touching by the volume of the sound of skins greeting each other. Scary moments of impulses of bodies calling for bodies. Flesh present and opening, inseparable from volume. Sounds, shapes and rhythms made of deep volume. Softness and roughness of skins who recognise each other in stuttering movements. The uncertainty of touch, the dangers of owned smells blending with the smells of those who had arrived before, alchemy-ing with the drunkenness of overwhelming…
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Imma J. López
I have been listening beyond my comprehension.
I have been listening beyond my comprehension.
I have watched birds flying, swirling, landing to feast in the backyard.
I have waited through the blue and frigid cold.
I have read about thinking classrooms where people gather round impermanence, grouped randomly…
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Amanda Judd
