Hello friends!

It’s been a long, long time since I shared my poetry on this blog. I’ve been writing a lot these past few months in preparation for an exciting project, and decided to post a small collection of favorites as a sneak peek for you guys. I mostly write blank verse – a.k.a. non-rhyming poetry – so if that bothers you, feel free to read this as prose instead. 😉

Either way, I hope you enjoy these poems and the accompanying golden hour photos!

These poems are all new, but you can read my older poetry in book form here.

good morning

On the pillow,

your soft hair slants in all directions.

The dent of your upper lip curves

like the wings of a bird in flight,

flamingo-pink over your open mouth.

Black-fringed eyelashes

sweep all the waking world away.

Your forehead is warm

when i kiss it

awake.

lost in the woods

I need to escape this desperate world

with its hard edges and bronze haze

and revel in lush curves and wild bends.

To sink knee-deep in tangled kudzu vines

that swallow everything

with gnash of round green tongues.

I must shrink to a shimmering speck

beside towering redwoods

with their silent, gripping strength

and verdant fern coverlet.

Or perhaps take an eager amble

down the same old fervent path,

glossy in its pictured memories from long ago.

Even these much-tread forests

with their lyrical birdsong,

silky streams, and warm broken sun

yield something new upon inspection,

like loving the same person

season after season.

The point is not glamour or spice;

the point, my dear,

is to go deep, deep

inside the heart of things

and lose the negligible

melrose caverns

They say this stone-draped cave

held Union soldiers, once.

One could walk above this hole

wholly unknowing,

assuming solid what is

glory-hollowed.

Now the underground descent

is lined with fine gravel

and small lights pointed at

the moist walls.

We crowd inside

and pose in each grand cranny

of nooked and nicked, dripped rock,

warm-tinted and shining.

Such vaulted rooms below the soil

make me pause and wonder

how many hearts are hidden even now

below the surface.

pollen

The glass of this table,

the blue of my car,

the air of this spring

is pollen-coated.

It stars in

scratchy yellow snowflakes

like warmer winter precipitation:

sky motes of dandelion wool;

gets into our mouths and throats

in its persistence.

Evangelism of trees and tulips,

it screams

NEW LIFE

until our heads ache and our throats gasp.

Breathless wind of future beauty,

cover the world in fine

gold dust.

yard visitors

The tidy little wren

in my front yard

keeps one stripe-crossed eye

to the ground and one on me,

her head cocked with caution

and curiosity.

I have sat here long enough

for her mate to

risk a fly-by,

even stopping nervously

under the railing to catch my eye.

I smile and nod encouragingly.

A squirrel, catching the glance,

crosses the street to join us

with staccato undulations.

It parts the grass in movements

alternately fluid and panic-clipped.

I restrain the sudden wish

to gather them all in the skirt of my dress

and stroke their soft fur and feathers.

To murmur

you are welcome here;

I could never harm

such nimble things.

the pastor says i am like peter

The pastor says I am like Peter.

Didn’t say so much as showed,

you understand.

I know a fellow worrier

when I hear one.

I, too, chase the fear of man

down roads in the night.

Then dawn crows,

day breaks on my broken heart,

and I bow my crooked head,

undone.

The rooster follows me

as the clock’s tock

haunts Captain Hook.

But the light follows me

as it did Peter,

and like him,

I will fly away

forgiven.

thunderstorm

Nothing slashes apathy like

the first bite of ripe nectarine

in a June thunderstorm.

Gossamer fragrance on the tongue

juices softly and without complaint

while wind rages and maple branches

shatter madly to the earth

from the kitchen window.

I would like to swallow

a dozen more, but

the rain whips the glass

to get at my face

and so I slip away.

mulberries

I carried a metal bowl and

the stepstool my grandfather made

out to the mulberry tree

the day after we returned from vacation.

Stretching to grasp all drooping branches,

I plucked, one-handed,

the glistening black bounty

of my childhood.

One taste tumbled me

to the bottom of my cousins’ hill

where we stood tiptoe

on the truck’s tailgate

to fill our pails with fruit and chatter

and stain our hands (and feet and face)

deep, sticky purple.

The buckets would be rinsed

in my grandmother’s sink,

startled damp insects

plucked out with wrinkled nose,

and long, juicy berries

packed into a homemade pie crust.

How sweet it was to eat

the pride of our picking

around the Sunday table.

space-sheep

Far away in space,

planets even now roam the sky

like swirled sheep among

starry-flowered fields.

Do space-sheep

graze Saturn’s rings

when our telescopes are turned away?

What goes on,

deep in the dust dunes of

those cold islands?

So much emptiness on those globes,

so many spinning worlds with

their own weather and moons…

Yet no one to lay on those hills

with elbows behind their head

and look up at Earth

shining in the night.

The thought frightens with

its vast loneliness.

All the wide horizon belongs to

burning suns and

hurtling rocks and

the space sheep,

contentedly chewing.

my sister’s car

My sister keeps

e v e r y t h i n g

in her car.

Extra magazines,

extra blankets,

extra clothes.

I pulled them on once—

the dress I was wearing

not fit for the trampoline.

Her short-sleeved shirt

was so red it almost glowed,

and the jeans were just my size,

split on the knee by a tearing hole—

a real one, not one of those

fake distress signals

shaggy with strings and factory scent.

My skin shone white, unsummered,

through the old denim mouth.

Isn’t it a funny feeling

to put on someone else’s clothes?

A sort of Halloween dress-up

on the most ordinary day.

You pull a piece of them

over your head with the fabric

and wonder if it shows.

benediction

One of my friends

walks around with

a welcome mat

always at her toes.

To open her door

is to set off the bell

of her voice in the kitchen:

your name yelled in

delighted tones

as if you are the person

she most longed to see.

Her beaming smile

warms like a benediction

and safens every space.

A package of instant home,

stirred smooth like vanilla pudding.

I want to love like that.

There you go! I hope you enjoyed reading that selection as much as I enjoyed writing it. You can see all my poetry books here. And be sure to stay tuned because there are a lot more new pieces where these came from. 😉

Which poem was your favorite?

Thanks so much for reading, my friends, and have a lovely day!

***Allison***