Written by Susan Skidmore
I lost control of my words They were in their order when I left the house but I left the cage unlocked and they got out They shredded the sofa cushions and made for themselves a nest on the floor They seemed so happy there that I nearly forgot to replace them on the page
Under a darkening sky troubles lift as matter lights. I stand stripped, overwhelmed with insignificance Which strangely holds a dangerous power: careless frivolity tending toward self-destruction. But if nothing matters, then surely, in a substantive universe, everything must. And curiously, under that same sky, nihilistic thoughts reverse. And, what responsibility if each action matters; the infinitesimal yielding the biggest bang. So, it is to this infinity, I’ll play my shining best, watchful of each step amid the all and the nothing.
trees painting skies walking under the dimming light looking for relief that we can’t find as our faces darken beneath the pines splintered footsteps lost in the dark a trail of wonders that leaves no mark as feet grow weary and the trees grow sparse the trail trails off like a lonely spark paper dolls glide in the forest as forest fires seek to destroy us set by the very ones we love unaware as they burn us up paper dolls alight from within outside we appear un- singed chasing the whispers that fan the flames searching for the love that won’t be claimed skies outlining the clouds a beautiful chaos to backdrop the sound of forest fires being put out the clouds feed on smoky doubts lost hearts calling in the dark on trails that still leave no mark as convincing fires drive them apart paper-thin echoes give away where we are paper dolls glide through the forest as forest fires seek to destroy us set by the very ones we love unaware as …
I’ve felt the sparrow panic in my chest against my sternum – a random flutter, beating its wings. Sometimes, flitting beside my throat quavering, making me feel faint. The doctor says my heart’s missing, forgetting beats, tripping, then catching up but, I know it’s really a sparrow stuck there, trapped terrified, like the one you freed between two panes reaching in with cupped hands, at the cabin, before the day you slipped and the spring freshet took you.
Although it was our first ascent we chose the route of most resistance Beneath brown cardboard doors you spoke of flowing rearward From far below the surface these things reflected differently and to you our altitude meant little I think you felt the marching feet of wasps and the mounting weight of smaller stones when I poured you out beneath the spruce
You told me you saw your first ghost at 7;
your grandfather’s shadow …
(A poem for those with a clitoris, and even those without)
Noun. One who criticizes, judges, or gives advice outside the area of his or her expertise.
It’s cl-IT-oris, you correct.
But you don’t have one.
An old radio,
trickles out classic oldies.
The soulful sound
of the historical rock
describes the grizzled man
sitting closely to the ancient stereo
in the large dirty ashtray
inducing a bright blue trail of toxic smoke
wafting into the air,
releasing the strong but homely stench.
The unmistakeable smell of coffee looms faintly
like a small beacon of bliss.
We were ice cream for breakfast and cereal for dinner…