Let ivy grow over my grave.
Let God make my body
a joy, a beauty; and a testament
to His power.
Make a place for birds to
nest in my headstone,
so that I may look back
and see new life
following my own.
SeashellsI found a matched pair
Of broken seashells.
They were halved, but not from the same whole.
Each orange half-moon had been trampled
By a careless tourist with eyes only for the waves;
Each had been bored through and gnawed at from the inside
By some seafaring worm;
Each had been beaten by water and stone,
Battered by wind, tossed by the gulls.
Their tips had been worn down to points like wings.
It was as thought hey flew together and met in my path.
I threaded wire through them to make earrings,
So that the pair would never be apart.
Ella Violo - Chapter 2Ella liked autumn. The sun didn't rise too early or too late, and the air was still warm while gaining an air of crispness. She rose on the morning of the thirteenth with an enormous yawn. A mouse in the corner echoed her sentiment.
"Good morning," she said to the little creature. The mouse skittered back into its home in an old holey chest against the wall. "Gotta get a cat," muttered Ella as she threw off her blankets and poked Tomas and Alejandro awake.
Maria was already up and about, frying eggs in the kitchen. She was only two years older than Ella, but she already looked like a mother. Her brown hair was tied up in a messy knot at the base of her head, and smile lines were appearing around her red lips. The smallest thief, a four-year-old boy with quick fingers, clung to Maria's apron as she swept around the room, stirring bubbling pots of porridge and soup.
"Up already, Ella? Must
SistersWe are the worriers, the wishers
on low-flying Boeings, willing them up and
away from our homes and businesses.
We found ourselves in old England in
New England, winters with no heat and
summers of more weight.
We see love in white and wrinkled faces,
in cupcakes and pencil boxes, in train schedules
and in ordinary time, cut time, and thyme patches.
We may sit quietly but we will never be
silenced save by shouts and each other's
We were the perfect girls, and we are the working
women of east and west, the white North,
wit and will and worship.
Panick 3Do you ever worry about going mad, Mother?
I do. It started one day
when my mind stopped sounding like poetry
or conversation. The transitions rambled.
I found that my head was off-kilter, or my eyes
wanted blue and red more than usual. Did you
ever feel that, Mother?
I had hoped it would go away, but internal
monologues don't stop when the script does.
The crazy, I mean. Why does
it linger? I would think that better minds
than mine need the twisting. But what if
we all went out of our heads for a while?
Could that fix things? If we could forget,
maybe problems would vanish like the ponies on the highway.
Wouldn't they? Like the posies? I've never
seen a posy, Mother.
Ella Violo - Chapter 1Chapter 1
So, you want a story? How about The girl who grew up too fast? Its one of my favorites. I know, youve heard it before, but theres so much you can learn from it. Especially if you want to grow up to be like me. Dont give me that look, Tomas, I saw you watching my hands on that job earlier. Good thieves dont come from nowhere.
Here goes. But you only get part of it tonight. Weve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow and you lads need your sleep.
Once upon a time, I had a little family. Just me, my Papa, and my Mami. We lived in a modest house in Caligari territory. Papa was a merchant, and Mami sewed and cooked. She and her friend Amelia made the most beautiful things with linen and lace, and Papa sold them to traders from Castille. I went to the market with him one day, when I was about four,
the playwrightGod is a playwright.
He sits in the back row
of velvet seats and claps
160 bpm after every act.
He closes his eyes when
the audience laughs together,
His play is very good,
and He knows this.
After the show,
they always ask,
“How did you make
the characters so
honest? So real?”
He shrugs in his tweed
jacket with elbow pads,
frowns slightly, says,
“The characters got away from me.
I did not make them this way.”
Forming HelixForming Helix
sit at the root
of totem poles,
into token shards
and let heat signatures
like alcohol ciphers.
gazes glazed vitreous view
that triggers starry
eyeshot into shaky acuity
before sclera’s bloodshot
autoscopy astral projection
as it spirals
IlluminatedLight from within and light from without,
Mingling in a dancing prism,
Reflecting gold, red, blue,
Reuniting orange, purple, green,
Again to become a single beam,
A Place to call RefugeThere is a world that follows the laws of nature.
Survival of the fittest; it’s killed or be killed.
Predators all around, and not enough places to go.
But there is a place to go.
In the midst of nature, an asylum is built behind enemy lines.
“Come in; there’s room for someone like you.”
A home like no other; the heart is compelled.
People coming together; a place to get away from the chaos.
Laughter, smiles, tears, and compassion; a refuge is born.
A home like no other; a refuge in the middle of a war known as life.
Built on an unbreakable foundation; there is nothing like it.
Nations and worlds collapse to form into one; a place to thrive than survive.
It’s forever beautiful here, and the heart of it beats.
A love like no other and a compassion like no other.
Nature can survive, but the refugees will thrive.
A place to call refuge; a home for all and hosted by the Master of Masters.
In a Moment of Clarity
Under the two way mirror below each layer of the faded paint of a coffin, lied the liar laying alone and undead. Laughing in amnesia's grasp at his own reflection upon seeing himself through crazed eyes.
I know the story that is told for the doomed soul, and how short it is will remind you of condemnations meaning. A guinea pig by his own curiosity laid flat in useless soils, his was a cliche tale of woe and an ending without twists.
A turn for the worst will come with the lights switched on and the glass broken, and his first steps will be into a world without law or regulation, yet a prison all the same where the guards are inmates and the Warden was once near flawless.
A hooded figure had come sporting typical black for the cliche fool as told in countless fables, and delivered unto Hell an unrepentant sinner for whom God had wept just like the innumerable before him. The fool will weep from now on.
Biographies for these characters are fables tattooed on the golden calf upon which t
Nightly RitesStrike the match
And light the wicks
Of your blessed
A star of five
Upon the ground,
In the middle
Sit ye down.
Bow your head
And chant your prayers
As on the walls
Dance transient flares.
Hold your palms
Above each flame
When you call out
Each god's name.
For my desire;
And to the earth,
And to the blaze,
Name I praise.
Give me strength,
Grant me vigor,
And courage when
My fears grow bigger.
I summon forth
My inner creature,
So bless me now
To know your ways,
To know the earth
All of my days.
Three candles through,
And two to go,
To Goddess Brigid
I whisper low.
Matron of poets
And of rhymed word,
Let my lyrical
Spell be heard.
Goddess, give me
The power to bend
As flexible as
The water and wind,
So that I may learn
How to adjust
When an attack
My enemies thrust.
Let me be kind
And light as air,
Let my heart
Be good and fair;
And like the ocean,
Grant me depth.