Prose
Poppies Know the Wind!
When I was a child, I would spend summer days searching for poppies along the walls and in abandoned lots. So small and fragile they were, it was clear they belonged to no part of the world I lived in. And yet, they grew—lifting themselves as far as they could reach. In some quiet, hidden way, they seemed to count the wind as a friend, a companion; for even the fiercest gusts could not tear their petals apart. Instead, their petals held hands, resisting together. The wind, their gentle ally, would kiss their crimson blades—ending in a soft velvet black—then move on.
By Nicole Moore3 months ago in Poets
Passage. Runner-Up in Poetry of the Hunt Challenge.
Now, to search out the isolates. Gathering the bits. As Duncan said, a sense of parts fitting in relation to a design that is larger*. Neither reduction nor expansion, merely an observation. Comprehending what is happening, every happening. The cogs and wheels necessary to make a life turn, come nearer to its completion. To realize the attempt as an escapist. Working in words...want[ing] every part of the actual world involved in [the] escape*.
By Guia Nocon3 months ago in Poets
Let Me Sit With You
Silence is such a full bodied sound. Not like the bare echoes of cymbals or untuned piano keys. Silence is full of heaving chests, old hardwood sagging beneath your weight, a lonely tree branch greeting your window, and all the other too oft ignored delights.
By Taylor Jené Fisher3 months ago in Poets
