Franklin Park 3/28/18

The fallen fir tree flows in sap yet, Dewy beads oozing from split branches, Still healing after we proclaim it dead. I heard once that tree blood’s an ointment, So I slathered it on the self-doubt gnawed into my cuticles. I popped a lump into my mouth, too, Maple sweet and bitter bite in one…

thinking and becoming

i have agonized and hemmed and hawed about posting on here for far too long. perhaps if i post something, i will stop agonizing about whether or not i am posting something. welcome to the experiment! this poem (and prompt) from my advent poetry challenge, written december 21st.  thinking and becoming  things I’ve thought i…

the f word

failure I. such an unassuming                          word, that such an unassuming mind-bending word such an unassuming mind-bending word that permeates my psyche claws into those ¿forgotten? cobwebbed corners of             my soul and whispers to me that failure will…