Father. Academic Advisor. Musician. Writer. My real name is Jesse Balogh.
flower stems do backbends over my stretched-out-visage breeze rises goosebump mountains on my arms in the distance a monastery bell sends a soft alarm
By Rowan Finley about a month ago in Poets
Winter, your thrill of chill is fun for a moment, but then I dream of summer’s saunter. Sipping lemonade, under palm tree shade,
I married a nightmare, she rode in, as toxic smog, that would never dissipate.
"You don't wanna' fail do you?" The apprentice who was also called a Bug Boy asked the jockey. The jockey was about to mount his racehorse. The other jockeys were lining up. Their colorful jackets and caps appeared.
By Rowan Finley about a month ago in Fiction
She spotted my high degree of vulnerability. I was as convenient compassion supply, picked up from 7-11. Bought quickly, with grimy cash that had rat-chewed corners.
Now, I’m seeing, that you tend the soil of my being. When all I see is dirt and dust, you see beauty, not rust. You are walking with me in the garden of purpose and good tidings,
The two warriors whispered and prayed in another tongue. Feeling the bending of my knees, I swayed down to the movie theater floor.
By Rowan Finley 2 months ago in Poets
Lord, the world is shaking, trying to get an audience. Riots, hurricane, tsunamis, unrest, uncertainties, unbelief. Conspiracies, lies, ignorance.
What could she possibly mean? I don't understand what she truly desires. What is her miracle question? In a perfect world, that she'd find herself describing...
The dam usually breaks at night. Rarely, ever does it occur in the daylight. But if it’s during the day, then Billie Eilish is singing “What Was I Made For.”
I cannot seem to help the fashion in which I stand, as a platter of, buffet-style, emotional vulnerability. I hope the quickening of my heartbeat isn’t too obvious or too loud.
The earth groans and fidgets for closure. Prophetic warnings, has there not been enough exposure? The words of Jesus “It is finished!”
