Wordle #125


I shift my answers

To the center,

One must have magic

If one is to take heart.

I split the avenue like a bell

Footsteps echoing,

Belligerent as a stain

Always announcing

My whereabouts,

My mutability, as I skulk

From place to place

Desperate to remain unused.

In my dreams there is only me

Though I wear many costumes

I appear most often as a house.

What intrigues me most

Is that we pay for our mediocrity

However, profound our gifts.

(the secret to genius is sweat)

We want to possess,

To change without struggle,

To validate without work.

Scarred and encumbered

I have wept and waited

I have withered and illumined.

But the most profound role

I have ever portrayed was man.


New Star

It’s not a rift that a button can conquer
It’s not a matter of fashion or posture
My body is a starched linen
My face a wide-brimmed hat
My hands, two monkeys stirring

This island is eroding
Tame next to the sea’s wiles.
The boulder no longer commands
My exits nor presumes to waylay guests
I am not the same surplus
The same angel, the same grail
Immortal, nirvanic
Content to equip my enemy
With both ammunition and gauze.

When I die please do not consider me
A victim, know that, I went fighting,
Know that, the cave grimaced in sunlight
And that I took those yellow tendrils
Into myself as one takes a mirror
Willing, if inadequately equipped,
To embrace a truth superseding ego.

I can no longer justify my trips to purgatory
The poverty that follows each extraction
Some days I leave my face unmade.
And set out to conquer the extraordinary
I was given but one heart
And none but she can pronounce my name.

I Dream

surreal-pink-fantasy-trees-ravens-flying-kathy-fornalI never yield to intimidation

In comparison to my own

All incendiary critique pales


I know who I am

Though sometimes

I lack the means

To reap potential


If a sickle I’d be a moon

Half undressed

So I could indulge

To my heart’s content

The poetry

Of interstellar passage


The ghost of metronome

Relinquishes my steps

I am borrowed and blue

Elbow deep in the yellow pages

Sometimes a girl needs help

Defining her priorities


I am not the sensible sort

I’ve always sought

Instinct over provision

Love is everything

It’s the epoxy that holds

My molecules steadfast


I dream, I dream, I dream

Were I a writer others might

Know my heart as I have

Always known her,

In opposition to intellect,

My mind is unwilling to suffer

For the sake of accomplishment

She is content with her gavel and scale

Content to judge and measure

In complete isolation


My muscles twitch indignantly

But rationalization objects

You’re sick, you’re tired, you’re lazy.

Sometimes I resent homeostasis

To move through wind showers

And arbitration because I felt

Inspired by the presence

Of a disembodied voice

Welling up artlessly within

That is my highest ideal

That is the poet serving

Virtuously as vessel

To the muse most adored


Lately I’ve written without a single thought in my head. It’s not that I don’t have thoughts, it’s not that I’ve stopped feeding my intellectual curiosity, and it’s certainly not I’ve stopped picking at my scabs. It’s simply that when I write I am unscrewing all the valves and letting the words pour out uninterrupted. I want to see what happens when I don’t judge and criticize myself relentlessly while composing a poem. What happens when I just let my heart speak for itself? At the moment writing it very Zen and very liberating.