Tag: poems
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Minneapolis Lullaby
(for a city trying to sleep) Hush now, Minneapolis,the night is cold and deep.The streets are filled with footstepswhen they ought to be asleep. A man was lost this morning,and questions fill the air;voices asking softlyfor truth that’s clear and fair. The winter wind is blowing,but people gather still,holding candles in the darknesson every frosted…
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ICE
Ice begins as a simple thing: a hardening of water, a pause in the world’s pulse. It slicks the roads, glazes the troughs, draws white lines across the morning. Children test it with their heels. Farmers curse it. The river wears it like a tight, bright mask. Ice is just weather, you tell yourself;a temporary…
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A Polite Haunting
Some days, a tiny creature wakes up inside my chest, a moth‑sized doubt with button eyes and too much interest. It flutters through my ribcage with a soft, persistent bluff, whispering in a velvet voice, what if you’re not enough? It’s polite about its haunting, it never claws or makes a scene;just rearranges furniture in…
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Path, Two Figures
The older figure walks with a measured rhythm, as if the day has agreed to match his pace. The smaller figure beside him moves with a lighter cadence, testing the texture of the moment with each step. Their hands meet.simple contact.steady.uncomplicated. The path ahead is plain, a strip of gravel that offers direction without insisting…
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The Rise
(Inspired by, and to the tune of, The Day the Nazi Died by Chumbawamba) They said it couldn’t happen here,they said the threat had passed;that fascism was a relicin a history book at last. They told us we were safe now,that the danger had been slain,but the day we stopped believingwas the day it rose…
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The Ballad of the Vanishing Spine
They say the Capitol’s tremblinglike a fiddle in the rain,’cause the man in the big chair’s shoutingand the echoes rattle the pane.And the folks who swore to guard usjust smile and toe the line;you’d think they’d lost the ledgerwhere once they kept their spine. They check the polls at sunrise,run the numbers twice by noon,draft…
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The Edge of the Lawn
He held the edging shearslike the world only stayed steadyif he kept cutting.Like order was a thing he could still shapewith his hands,one clean snip at a time. I stood beside him,small, bright,orbiting his gravitywithout understanding its pull. He didn’t teach with words.He taught with posture,with the slow choreography of care,with the quiet insistencethat some…
Weather In My Ribs 