As Rogue Tulips

spring fields at season’s birth
roar with the winds only heard
in ear canals
and two or three trees randomly clustered

isolated, they scream
who knew branches can be so loud?
like lions on the bluff they bellow
unable to break the valley gusts
between mountains and sea

(they settle
for chaos because calm comes

eventually)

a horizon dark, backlit by light
pushed forward toward raging puddles
where tiny ships must be sinking
their SOS unheard, we leap

we watch our wandering feet,
sponge underfoot cushions

precariously.

step over clay-cracked puzzles,
pieces that once removed,
may just open the gaping chasm

and draw us down
so we grow back
as rogue tulips:

red

in a field of white.

 

~ Emily C.

4.14.17

*Photography by me. Spent the day at the Skagit Valley tulip festival yesterday.

Advertisements

Neon Blood



blood beats neon

dreams of electric nights

wake to days

in your illuminated arms

aglow in a love lit

magnetic poles click

a kiss sends shock

a buzz our bodies’ talk

technicolor climax

keep your switch on
let’s find
a new color
to feel

~ Emily C.

3.9.17

Liminal Cliff

I didn’t shower last night
crawled to bed near comatose

blinds cracked, a street light date
keeps me warm in that cold distant way

just enough light, just enough space
don’t come too close, I can’t play

— waiting for the sound of thoughts
in dim night brakes my awareness

cusp of nothingness calls me near
while time on clock mocks my fear

tick
tock
ti..

…hushhh. I can’t think.
forget me and let me be…

..ck.

the only thing I want is dark
my reliable shifting confidant

the backside of night taunts
it waits for me to relent

to at last, say — fuck.
it throws bets down on the felt
under its looming light

that it will outlast my torment
a toss and a torturous turn

liminal cliff my poetic haunt
not asleep, not awake

…don’t make me
…don’t make me
…don’t make me

choose…

~ Emily C.

3.8.17

*****

Inspired by S Francis at Sailor Poet to write on the subject “the backside of night”, his answer to when he likes to find inspiration to write. Charles at The Reluctant Poet answered with his own poem responses.  Both excellent writers, check them out when you get a chance!

The Death of Words

prone cold on forest floor buried
in a ratted nest of torn pages

crumpled, tossed
in bloody autumn shades of pain

stale air hushes
— gusts the death of words

arboretum canopy covers
tucked in a winter wild with chaos

fabric shreds hang off limbs
dirtied hiding from time’s abuse

fucked by wealth of words
— errantly used

stung by false love
crash-and-burned

reaching out a hand
a skeleton in thin skin

picking out refrains
from rotting teeth

spitting out prose
that failed

bonfire wails
of voices killed

from inside
spilled

~ Emily C.

2.22.17

Crack

all my words stored in the glass jar of my heart

on torn paper stubs, old napkins, parchment

written, folded, erased, edited, burned, kissed

set away there indefinitely, waiting for you

swimming in blood

swirling

with each beat

waiting

to crack open

spill on the floor at your feet

~ E

11.5.16

Night Sky

Moonbeams drip

down silken crescent slide

dousing flitting fireflies

fuel flares high

giving birth above

constellations’ shimmering shine

fabled stories to tell

from another time

meteors’ explosive arcs

illuminate in droves

the very words we speak

in eager ears of ours

writing sweet nothings

in our glittered night sky

let’s trace them with fingers

as we lie

till we die

and we are

born again

to rise

~ Emily Clapper

7.11.16