Category: Poetry
Monday Morning after a Storm
by Josie
What happens. What happens, when the cold morning breath of a foggy night slips under the covers and over the lips and bare feet stretch evenly over a woolen rug to a world that smells of light eucalyptus and an open balcony door — What happens.
Wednesday Night
by Josie
Exactly 11’o clock! The streets are dark and quiet, dispelled childhoods tucked deep into beds of rubber, bleach, contact tracing — when I look around me I see my bare feet are blue & bleeding; I see small swarms of cheeky mongoose rushing from trash can to trash can leaving filmy residue on the carpet street walk down the lane for a while … Read More Wednesday Night
Cafe, 1 a.m.
by Josie
Weary eyes opened wide propped up on toothpick espresso cups licked clean, licked smart the woman in the wide-brimmed hat warm breath, wild thoughts tells us of visions, the dessert dunes camels in hand Mount Tahat in the dust kicked up no way! some shout get outta here!
Nazare, February.
by Josie
Standing with salty toes smelling of fish on the grandstands of Nazare, cliffs so big cresting giants double the height— rising great walls of freezing winter water jackets on so tight, skins the color of rubber suctioned, hands so white gripping tows a mammoth wave rising like the froth of a pub beer it crests and slams—
On Writing a Poem in the Morning
by Josie
green mint tea seeps around the rim of the garden plate ductile : serpentine I set the cup down and it clatters. It’s about how to see the things how to get to the vision the tea cup is significant and not a step in that direction.
Piece by Piece
by Josie
In the sudsy bathtub with my lover hot & content, one finger fiddling a weeping joint we soak in lavender & hold each other ; slippery skin to skin.
Don’t Give Up on Me,
by Josie
‘cause I want to do two things : first try to show that life finalizes itself on the threshing floor, engorged with a life- time of self-thinking thoughts and self-sinking assertions.
101 bpm
by Josie
Wisps of sainthood waft about this living room— give me flamenco, give me Persian rhythms and sweet gypsy jazz, swing it all out of speakers perched high on the cabinet counter. Bits of wild wind shoot through the second story windows, running from the belching mountains beyond the poplar trees in the backyard. The gusts lift the melodies and snuggle them into marrow-bones, into … Read More 101 bpm
Phytophile
by Josie
Beyond the ribbed panes of the kitchen window swings a gorgeous plum and yellow philodendron; sweeping lacquered leaves catch the breeze half in split leaf, half monstera, a good name for such a beast! She belongs to our neighbor, who carefully disregards her day after day, neutrally striving to feed her natural sunlight (9-9:30 a.m.) and a sprinkle of cloud water from the Mountains … Read More Phytophile
Humans
by Josie
The mountain shudders under great weights of gusts and snow, groaning and creaking the six English climbers huddle rope-tied to rocks and tree branches listening for avalanches. And I sit here, at this metal patio table, so arbitrarily square, in a humid afternoon swatting flies and wondering what I will have for lunch.
