Once innocent ore
dredged unyielding from the Earth,
Wrested for one crest:
to feel hammer blow,
Galvanized with Fire forge
Bent without consent,
Splashed down in Waters
cool and dark, shaped to strike back-
Hark! upon the mark!
Swift through mortal flesh,
Strip Air from lungs, dying breath,
Sword that once was ore.
About the Creator
Allison Baggott-Rowe
I am an author pursuing my MA in Writing at Harvard. For fun, I mentor kids in chess, play competitive Irish music, and performed in Seattle with Cirque du Soleil. I also hold my MA in Psychology and delivered a TEDx talk about resiliency.
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More stories from Allison Baggott-Rowe and writers in Poets and other communities.
Once Upon a Grown Up
I toss, I turn. It is unclear where the cemetery stops, and the real world begins. The one with grass and trees and birds that sing the songs to others of their kind that simply ring out the idea: I am alive. The world I used to belong to before I started, bleary-eyed, down this road with a single wooden post I barely stopped to read. “What,” I think it said, but I will not look back. My feet, once so quick to skirt the sand composed of crunched up bones now drag heavy in the dust made mud in this land far too familiar now. How long have I been walking? What I would give for a drink of water. Though, I suppose, there is now nothing left to give. A lock of hair that once knew sunlight, I would shave it all off for a splash of rainwater against my feet were I able to lap the liquid greedily from my own toes. The memory of every smile I ever made. I would allow each one to blossom over my lips only to stopper them in a bottle for the consumption of a voyeur of emotions, puzzling over the idea of joy with no appreciation, nor comprehension, for the crinkled skin around my eyes or the pinprick of a dimple that calls out with inimitable authenticity. I would hold them up to receive but a patch of moistened moss so as to squeeze out the last few drops of wetness and taste it upon my parched tongue in this foreign wasteland where I have fallen once again. But behind shuttered eyelids in this land of skeletons, I find only the plotted path before me and plod on to the promise of that ephemeral land of “Next.”
By Allison Baggott-Rowe3 years ago in Poets
More Than Just Words
More than sweet words, I cherish the people who are willing to show up for me. The depth of a relationship isn’t determined by how many times we say, “Let’s meet up another day.” Those seemingly warm words often go unfulfilled. Instead, it is the friend you don’t contact often, or even someone who lives far away, who quietly drives over the moment you say, “I’m a little tired lately.”
By Emily Chan - Life and love sharing3 days ago in Poets
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