Category Poetry

I still write about sunsets.
Mundane as it is, the closest
I have ever come to God

Tell me who you are.

I still remember the day I sat on a padded bench among other women

After we younglings in choir loft intone our last song, we close our hymnals...

I cried for nothing last night.

Tipping Catch it up frontSplit-second eye contactSo much stuffedIn two tiny orbs True person comes throughReacts to youSlips through your fingersBecomes someone else Ditches of painLittle space in-betweenBreath held for daysFalse smile of survival Flatfooted shufflesWorn floor of a mythStarts…

Soft is hard to come by.

The poem is a hot-air balloon.