breakwatersometimes when i talk to youbreakwater by bringyourownbomb
my mouth is full of sand.
other days the words pour
like lakewater. i feel
i’ve drank too much
saltwater when i look at you.
i wish i was a breakwall
and could hold this all back.
Gods' CountryAurora smiles down as Boreas whips throughGods' Country by bringyourownbomb
her hair and sweeps it across the sky, sparkling
shades of forest green and emerald. Dryads swing
from their branches until the treetops sway,
casting shadows against the mountain. Atop,
lights flicker where the Oreades dance and sing
beneath Gaia’s primordial Pontus. Below,
an expanse of ice breathes—nature’s lung.
There is life trapped beneath where the Limnades
slumber, waiting on the return of Persephone
to aide Demeter in the deliverance of spring.
Along the shoreline, a young woman walks.
Psamathe passes the winter nights sculpting beach
sand, frozen, into jagged formations. The girl climbs.
A song plays through her head, a humming.
Wish you were here.
UntitledThey tore like the Oh-My-God particleUntitled by bringyourownbomb
across the universe, like comets or neutron stars
blazing a trail. I wanted to get away.
I'd say, beam me up, Scotty-no,
a misquotation-they only said, beam us up
and beam them up, but who is us? Who's them,
and who would I take with me? No one-
I used to feel better off on my own.
Leaving the earth behind to fly with moons
and more had young children wanting
to become astrophysicists, almost.
Key word almost-not quite there, I write
poems about stellar black holes, constellations,
binary stars-the primary and their comes-instead.
I think that's just as well.
Nimoy was a poet too, took pictures-dancing
girls smiling for the camera, not the science officer
a child believed he was. He was no Vulcan,
no green-blood and incredible longevity.
Redshirts die too, flung into black holes
and warps of time, captains age, reborn
in alternate universes, souls the most human
pass on. Timeless, but mortal, final words:
A life is like a garden. Perfect moments
Self-Made ManI never saw Grandpa Carte in a suit. Only in pictures, oneSelf-Made Man by bringyourownbomb
of him carrying me up the aisle, my mother and father’s wedding.
He was a man who cut the collars off his flannel shirts
so they didn’t bother him anymore. He tailored gloves
to fit the remainder of the hand he lost working at the shop.
Grandpa worked around the house, often alone,
sometimes biting back when offered help.
I borrowed his Motor Trend and Automotive magazines
each month after he was done with them. I started
getting my own copies in the mail not long after. I was smaller
still when he taught me to drive the tractor, bigger again
when he took me out in the van and showed me how to drive.
Soon I was graduating, and he bought me a car. I remember
the disappointment when I ran it out of oil, failing
to check it how he had taught me. He fixed it,
like everything else, and I learned.
When I was a child, he built with me in the barn,
scraps of wood put together to make something new.
Slats of wood nail
conversion therapyher god is notconversion therapy by herbodyismycoffin
her god drinks
the way they love.
she will think
of me every time
she washes her hands
for the next three
she will tuck me
beneath her pillow
and recite me in
her nightly prayer.
His word is Good,
His word is in the
mouths of those who
drop f-slurs and
t-slurs down my neck,
hot wax sealing the
envelope of fate;
was it i who put
the fear of God
in Himself -
or was it He who
put the fear in me?
written for my mother as a birthday gift to her. living in the upper peninsula of Michigan is pretty amazing and very inspiring.