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Tanisha Jackland Apr 2020
He came as
clear as crystal
spoke to me
in cello notes
My body was not
my own but his
to strum and gently
tango with
He tasted like
sweet mead
lit tiny fires upon
my skin
I succumbed
consumed by
this holy muse...
Tanisha Jackland Apr 2020
It's not what you would die for
that has greater meaning
it's what you would live for that makes
it all seem timeless and worthwhile
Tanisha Jackland Apr 2020
I used to be

frightened of dragonflies

until my husband

clued me in on

how good they are

for the ecosystem

eating mosquitoes

across the lakes

and such

but dragonflies represent

the horror of growing up

for me

how adulting brings

the innocence of

childhood to

an undeniable halt

I could feel the weight

of adult realms compressing

me into a condensed

little consumer all

pre-progammed and 'waiting'

for further conditioning

like an automaton

And me remaining in

a doe-eyed stance for

pretty much the

rest of my life
  Apr 2020 Tanisha Jackland
Cruz
No one truly loves a poet
We are used and dont know it
Our love fills a void
It builds them up like steroids
It envelopes and consumes us
Our passion fired by our lust
They warm their hearts by our fire
Till they are done and throw us on the pyre
We are told that we are like no other
Then they leave us for another
Cause a poet isnt their forever
We are just someone to be remembered
  Apr 2020 Tanisha Jackland
Serendipity
She smelled like cigarette smoke
and *****
and Oh,
how I wished to be
the ash or the bottle
that fell
from
her
lips.
Tanisha Jackland Apr 2020
The nights have
been somber around here
they are filled with
apparitions of
longing and worry

So I write poems
with a surgical knife
to cut at the wound
of my sullen cries

I should be stronger
than this
superwoman in reverse

the cobwebs come and
multiply around me
as if I were an
abandoned building
while the shadows have their
own wicked agenda

as I flutter around
like the milquetoast girl
from yesterday

I'm bullied by
quarantined nights
then saved by the morning
Sun of my resurrection
Again
I'm making this

a federal production
about

a bowl of silver
apples

and how these pewter
pieces of fruit

that if I'm not careful
can become

the cold and scary
central characters

all their own
in what is supposed to be

my  life

Whit Howland © 2020
A word painting with I guess a message. An original.
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