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Caged hands
Fumble,
Eye teeth, nick
*******,
Toes, tumblers,
Unlocking
Combinations of two,
Nose to ear,
Fingers printing
Smear,
Tongues, tasting
Freedom,
Jailed
In clothing's
Night.
She put her hair up,
All night I imagined its fall,
Breathlessly waiting.
—for Síneánn

We drove to a lost, lonely isle,
And where, if only once to find
Ourselves sown again, belonging
Wholly to the keep of faraway strands
That hours tided us in beads and wave,
The nascent sea whispering aloft and birds
Cascading as we flew, to sail under moving
And hoary dunes with stellar eyes of poppies
Wild, such breathtaking strides for we to make
And the sun set dripping and lowly swept ashore
Away to us on breaths of gentle crests breaking,
We spoke sundry nothings, as if to know things
So simple are to be kept wanting nor ever said,
The lonely, dull star of day fell sleepy, dimmed
By sparks, the shimmer to our eyes—

                                                               So clear,
Shall be the hills of the fair isle to us, will always
Remain caste with new lamb and crowned deer,
By thorn and thistle and rimmed with broken shells
Rung on marbled beach, singular, before innocence
And grace, by skip ****** lovers cradled in only sky
To be joined, with the lined hands of long night stars,
Finally reaching in the jeweled glass by the running
Grains polished, a gild castle moat, stained into ocean
Salt, always by the sea of windows glory and joys given
To each, ever to be ****** upon the high tunes eternal,
Beside the stations of grass and drifted heartwoods,
Among wings by the slip of tides, ripped monumental;

Till when we drove away, this time, in a carriage stall
And all the tumbles of sand into eyes crumbled to end,
We drove ourselves back to riven sleep, a stark beyond
The fallen wayfare columns of momentary paths, we cut
Home, trudging through the garden forests and inlet
Bays on serpentine road, always ever to cross—
A bridge of sighs.
The Bridge of Sighs (Italian: Ponte dei Sospiri) is a bridge located in Venice, northern Italy. The enclosed bridge is made of white limestone and has windows with stone bars.

The view from the Bridge of Sighs was the last view of Venice that convicts saw before their imprisonment. The bridge name, given by Lord Byron in the 19th century, comes from the suggestion that prisoners would sigh at their final view of beautiful Venice through the window before being taken down to their cells.
 Apr 2014 Michelle
Oh No One
You* think you're boring.
I* think you're the most exciting person in the world.
You think you're ugly.
I think you're the most gorgeous person on the planet.
You think you're stupid.
I think you're a genius.
You think you have flaws.
I think you're more perfect than anything I've ever seen.
You think you're not good enough.
I think you're the best thing that's ever happened to me.
No matter what you think, I'll always think you're amazing.
 May 2013 Michelle
Sam Hawkins
Buildings for the most part are boxes square.
But Pentecost circles and spirals,
they turn and burn wild.

Of those who would tame
and make comprehensible any fire--
apt tongues have gone titch titch
and beautiful catch 'til words and music
and parlor diplomacies fortify
much which is untrue.

Fear has no finish, even in our dying.
The path is a cliff edge.

Let us turn, un-adult-like, and strip ourselves  
of civilized persuasions. Usher
Earth's children into primordial worlds.

Water shall love and receive us, as it always has.
The naked ground will speak up,
into our touching feet.

Listen to the tongues of the wind.
Unhinge the body, which is you.

Let all creation fly.
 May 2013 Michelle
Sam Hawkins
Saturate and brimming of my hometown Boston,
of its sunshine Marathon peoples and bomb images,
my heart fracture rend.

On the third day—resurrection of all my sadness
came to me, feeling fresh and born to fruition,
so this grew.

It grew and through my tears coming,
I stood to witness two loving sparrows
on a window branch.

My sadness at some abeyance, studying and curious
I was of her--all akimbo shivers and rock-in-roll, of him--
flying feathered stone, rolling from branch to branch
and coming home, repeatedly.

Circles flying within moving circles!

Did something happen
with the last jiggle of her branch?

Did you see that? Science says
what they were doing—they had finished.

(But what to believe of Science?
It calls their loving--mating rather).

Now to tell you—the sequencing was this:
when I was full knocked down
on account of my grief,
and I hardly had strength to go on,
a Beatles song flew in and gently pierced my heart,
singing to my ear: Why don't we do it in the road...
no one will be watching us...why, why don't we do it


O, Spring Life of Sparrow surprises!
Open road, that budding tree,
any new notion is something grand!

How do I say now? That you two
were most helpful, your innocence
forever abiding?

Fly off Sparrows, forever prayer!
I speak this with all my love.
 May 2013 Michelle
Sam Hawkins
Is it ever too late to be circumspect-select?*
I asked myself.

My semi-permeable state
invites distasteful items to my plate.

These careless hands of me
are flying all about,
opening all the gates.

And who or what has called to order, set opinion,
filed judgment, if not something
of a lie and a hatred?

Tries to tells me who I am
and says: this and that is what
I should rather be doing.

At my frosty age, be a man.
Get that straight.

And when I have seen hands of others
come, wishing to be as helpful,
they flash their passports at my door.

I shall deliberate and trust
the simple and silent
dominions of my house.

Practice.

What is it that I shall practice?
I'll not tell more.
 May 2013 Michelle
Dag J
life seems to have
lost its bearing, but I hope
to find my compass soon
so the map yet again can
                     lead me astray
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