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


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


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:


in a field of white.


~ Emily C.


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



standing at the edge

standing at the edge of light

darkness of the forest night

darkness of the forest


darkness of her heart’s blight

brightness of her soul’s might

brightness of her soul


branches arch o’er entrance

hands reach o’er head’s dance

feet dance toward mud path

toes curl inside leather swath

voices come from deep inside

voices come from deep

voices come

through trees hiding they confide

through creatures spying spied

messages travel limb to limb high

high vines tangle with rocks

blocking way they never stop

legs lead her clearly across

to only by sly vines be blocked

stymied hope by sylvan flock


mirage of deliverance

mirage of deliverance fraught

with triggered booby trap tricks

swears the next will open thicket

swears the best is next to this

swears the best is next


jester in charge grins in his sin

watching her try again again

again she reroutes her spin

again she refuses to give in

again she refuses to give

again she refuses

again she





~ Emily C.