Morning milky meadows
bow and dance
extended in ecstasy
drugged from earth's mixed flesh
beside tumbling circus streams
insects clatter in wild circles
caves appear from muddy closures
cold north wind chatters
amongst curled protected leaf
pure halos of white snowdrops
surrender to yellow crisp borders
lonely stone pathways await
for hurried small footsteps
to play quick jagged tunes
upon their bony spines
Hardy green sprouting demons
threaten in choking glance
abusing pavement and passing chance
clouds in mystery diminish time
darting glimpses trace nesting walls
hearts, fresh, young,
parade amongst beating wings
reincarnation
unbelieved, practiced,
sticky truth buds/
living dead rise from ploughed
risen furrows
i visualize my palms
the field uncurl
About the Creator
terry simmons
Alien stranded on Earth -around 59 years now - friend of all cryptids -
fascinated by every living vibration -expected departure poss around 2038
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munsona day ago in Fiction
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