ghost, breathing
I can
stand still
as air before
a thunderstorm
and feel my
footprints begin
to fill in
(though I have not
yet stepped
out of them);
I never did expect
to leave an impression
anyway
This piece was accepted and will be published in literary journal Vita and the Woolf. the palette of his palate
my synesthetic
son has lunch waiting – two takes
on the spring beets he
found yesterday at the first
farmer’s market of the year –
when we return from
church, each prepared according
to the hues he sees
when seasoning: purple from
orange sections, from honeyed
pecans, a touch from
the beets themselves; red (deep, like
the wine we open
to play alongside his work)
from beef and asparagus;
the beets, far milder
than their autumn counterparts,
shine gold through their red
tinge (like a sunset, he says,
and for a second I see)
Jamais Vu
I
have walked
that street all
sorts of befores with
eyes open (if not always
mindful of where I happened to be going) –
and yet on this grey Sunday it seemed new, a place to
be discovered, mapped into memory for the first time. It did not
last long, this sudden untethering from experience – two minutes, perhaps,
before I held the lines again – and still, hours on, there is a part of me that drifts and wonders.
This piece was accepted and will be published in literary journal Vita and the Woolf. Rue des Rêves Running through my memory
on the Street of Dreams
- Joe Lynn Turner
The path of love is a Möbius strip; it runs ever
ahead, behind, between.
All steps are steps forward; all footfalls vibrate
along immeasurable length.
Where it passes over water, it gleams mirror-bright;
stars come down to see their true selves, tiny
ideas of angels by whose light we read and dance.
Where it leads through trees, they do not crowd.
There, it is paved with red bricks from old schools;
all leaves which fall to it become singing birds.
Where it becomes a city street, it is lined (on both
sides, two being one) with museums, with noodle
shops, with shaded places for quiet and chocolate.
Where it soars above dark ragged gorges, we who
love meet and are not afraid.
Arms linked in hopeful conspiracy, we look over
the edge, see ourselves waving back.
This piece was accepted and will be published in literary journal Vita and the Woolf. In the Manner Which Seems Best to You
Forget inspiration; the only thing
the Muses really give you is a choice.
You have nine possible ways
in which to be devoured alive.
Please pick one.
There is no tenth option. Take up your
pen, your microphone, your paintbrushes
and give them a good show;
they do so like to be entertained before their
teeth meet through your heart.
This piece was accepted and will be published in literary journal Vita and the Woolf.
