walking home on fall afternoonicesnow in the palm of my hand
my fist is Spring.
Chrysalis.there is a boy who
he has green eyes
and does not
speak of love
They have departed,
their intimacy dissolves,
leaving empty space.
They will celebrate nearness
in a more intimate place.
In the heart
In the heart, doubts
In the doubts, a small room
In the small room, a table
On the table, a map being soaked by rain
On the table
In the small room
In the doubts
In the heart
BottomI know I'm near the ledge now
where the heart gives up on conceiving:
The parlous break of eye and ear's parley.
I need the legion of null-things now
to enter through the lesion on our pain,
the glitter to blink and wink
to obscure the abyss all of our bodies
are falling for.
7.34mmA simple measurement
can make a man
lose himself; a blurring, no more
than a grainy smudge
a scant 7.34mm long
this rice-grain, seven weeks old
with one hundred and twenty nine
heartbeats per minute
all this, from a mere sesame-seed of a heart
FragmentationThey sent the figments away so
I could see the leftover everything
-we own nothing-The sun rises; we become slaves.
Blue moon, or SadismYou would hang me from the belfry,
Coil my hair into a noose.
My hands would jerk and shudder,
My neck would snap clean
I'd dangle in wind furls,
A bloated cornflower:
You'd watch me from a distance,
Your once in a blue moon.
mercyyou incite no mercy,
I swallow your horror
As yet, untitledI swept out the corners of my mind today
In short shallow strokes
Not knowing if the dust disturbed my life
Or if my life disturbed the dust.
Sydney AirportTo hover/ in your medicine cabinet/ first-aid, French-doors/ all the words have been taken/ from me/ to explain to you that Im not here anymore.
Santa FeWe circled the bustling square,
bought the silver belt buckle,
Navajo-etched for fertility.
I made a painting of the blue bowl,
Cafe Pasqual's, glass in the sun,
truth from those unripe symmetries
sliding along our tongues with
salty shivers, icy, like hope.
You bought the bleached cow skull
so I could be Georgia in my mind.
3Gauge your days by
who runs through your house,
by the flags they carry there,
the words they leave on your rug,
by the color of the smoke you inhale after
their tomes stop burning
roseyou mime a rose
with hands I can't see
I can see
bones 9even the wind in the waves
could not hold his question
and gave it to the gulls
they circled the coast
with it heavy in their beaks
and lost it on purpose
RawIt's like thirst, but not-
it's worse; it hurts to swallow
little stirrings XX: moments
Your chaste sun-tipped fingers,
the blinding of your eyes-
how is it I never knew you before?
The moon-flecked range of your sound
from deep within caves
reverberates the ribs of shipwrecks.
I tread the curves of night
that wash ashore each hour,
the moments like seaweed in the shallows.
Crows"Crows," I whisper and she flies,
brown arrow shot
from the bowstring of a word.
|More Journal Entries|
PROTESTThe Whale and Dolphin,PROTEST by jimfleming
dear cousins in the sea,
beach themselves to die.
Do they speak to the deaf,
or are they just mute and frustrated,
Like the flaming fruit vendor in Tunisia or
the self-immolated Buddhist Monk in Vietnam...
Do they have our attention?
Can we be in concert with Earth?
Portals, collectedPortals, collected by EmmaSloane
Blue ones, grand ones with carved lintels, some open, welcoming,
others sealed, mere puzzle pieces in a calculus of abstract longing.
Ancient and new. Gates, sagging on rusted hopes, secret entrances
to hidden passageways, faerie doors and those bereft of magic.
It was not surprising to find them there, curated, accessible.
The words, too, contained multiple points of entry.
tremorbecause what am i supposed to dotremor by ClioStorm
when the quake hits and my knees
buckle and i bite my tongue, what
am i supposed to do when the air
shatters around me, what am i
supposed to do when nothing
will stay still.
From the Silk ReturnedWhere the wicker is weary,From the Silk Returned by Nichrysalis
But the wick still burns,
Comes a stagnant stillbirth
Of gossamer and fiber.
They look upon her
And shuffle glances, muttering:
"From the silk she's returned."
EdistoWe must have walked a hundred milesEdisto by EmmaSloane
between beach and marsh that spring;
chipped flint and sea glass, piles of oysters
on scarred tables, spread with yesterday's news.
A broken screen door to the sea, the postulate;
an imprecise geometry that haunts the ruin.
autoA breath crawls here, towards the beginning of hair and shoulder,auto by archelyxs
where collarbones flow over a slide of espresso and cinnamon
and swell over a swollen seacoast, resting on swimming, audible glands.
You wash the matter off and get to deep air; now,
run along now, run under rivers that continue alongside frothy eyelashes.
More light than life can stay. It can't reflect that it lives longer.
A moist and whispering returning drowns aboard a home
behind an electric company that conceals the words.
Don't believe for them. They are craven and overconfident
and they run fast. They always get away.
The Simulacrum is a library dedicated to the creators of, and appreciators of, snapshot poetry. Poetry that, in no more than ten lines, expresses and captures the blink of an essence.
1) Submissions are limited to one per day, and will be judged on their uniqueness and quality before being accepted.
2) Submissions must be 10 lines, or less, in length.
3) A high, grammatical standard is required.
4) Poetic 'quality' must be superior.
5) We do not offer critique or any literary prompts.
6) We do not accept prose.
7) Poems must be submitted by their author. Third-party submissions, with or without the consent of the author, will not be accepted.