I wrote this poem especially for today...well, actually for tomorrow (Thursday), because it'll be the first day of April! My post for Nobody's Rambler is on reading poetry out loud (specifically an e.e. cummings poem, because so many of them invite you to feel them on your tongue, like ice cream!), so I'm posting this in solidarity. It's still rough, and I'll probably tweak it someday (I just added the end of the second stanza), but it's presentable for now. So read it, enjoy/hate it, leave praises/criticisms (preferably criticisms so I know what to change - but still enjoy it please!), and I hope the weather permits for a good opening to April!
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words in mid-air
by Matthew Stalbaum
read the lines aloud. feel them
along the edges of lips, in the timbre
of breath, voice, the rhythm of heart
beat, and there to find
what words searched for
sound turned to the physicality
of a tongue's flicks and glides
to create lowing, singing, vibrato
a moment's pitch, never
to be found again (there will
be new ways of singing still)
in the words, a strange taste, as though
in them were Spring, April, Love, or rather
skin's roughness, heart's desperation, and voice
to ink and inking, when the pen lies
still to carve more breathe into the air
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
2 Places at Once (A Poem)
So, this week in my poetry class, my professor hurtled abstract questions at us for about an hour, and we jotted them down as they came while writing about whichever ones intrigued us. The first one was a little bit nerve-racking, and we didn't get a second question for a few minutes so the pressure on that one was fairly intense, but as more came it got easier to let the words flow. This was the second one I wrote, based around the question, "How have you managed to be in 2 places at once?" I always think about the nature of home and belonging when I'm traveling between Maryland and New York - which one is home, are either of them really? I began the poem with abstract questions based around the initial one, but decided not to include that with the more concrete image I ended up focusing on.
This is still a very rough draft, so this is mostly unchanged from when I wrote it in class under the gun of coffee and the desire to answer other questions. All I did really was actually maneuver the line breaks with more purpose in mind - the original draft was actually just written in prose lines, with no breaks - and cleared up some subject/object stuff. I kept the title because I think it works rather well. Overall, it seems nice and compact now, but now I'm always wondering if I can complicate things further, so if I think of anything along that vein I'll add some lines. But let me know what you think, please! Hope you enjoyed this week's poem, here's to more next week.
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"2 Places at Once"
by Matthew Stalbaum
As I am coming home on the bus, my Dad waits
to pick me up, and when he asks how
close I am to home, I'm never sure
what to say. I'm only sure
of the pitch black
outside the window, and the small lights from cars
streaking by, too weak to light
the exit signs and let me know where
I am. And even when I arrive, I'm never
sure that the bus has stopped
moving.
This is still a very rough draft, so this is mostly unchanged from when I wrote it in class under the gun of coffee and the desire to answer other questions. All I did really was actually maneuver the line breaks with more purpose in mind - the original draft was actually just written in prose lines, with no breaks - and cleared up some subject/object stuff. I kept the title because I think it works rather well. Overall, it seems nice and compact now, but now I'm always wondering if I can complicate things further, so if I think of anything along that vein I'll add some lines. But let me know what you think, please! Hope you enjoyed this week's poem, here's to more next week.
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"2 Places at Once"
by Matthew Stalbaum
As I am coming home on the bus, my Dad waits
to pick me up, and when he asks how
close I am to home, I'm never sure
what to say. I'm only sure
of the pitch black
outside the window, and the small lights from cars
streaking by, too weak to light
the exit signs and let me know where
I am. And even when I arrive, I'm never
sure that the bus has stopped
moving.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
little flower (A Poem)
I actually didn't want to post this poem, and intended on either posting one I wrote last night or writing an original one for tonight. This is a poem I intend to submit to my Advanced Poetry class for workshopping, so, again, I feel like I'm cheating a bit. But I haven't submitted it to them yet, and there's always the chance I might not, so who knows, maybe I didn't cheat after all!
The initial idea for this one doesn't actually come in until the 3rd stanza, and was sparked by my capriciously thinking of the word "unblossom" one day. I won't go into it, cause I don't want to influence any readings of this - either you get something out of it or you don't. Let me know what you think, really, any comments or ideas or observations at all, be they a thought on the poem or a criticism...they're all welcome! Thanks for reading as always!
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little flower
by Matthew Stalbaum
little flower in the patch, you have
unfurled your fingers long,
they brush against the ground,
flutter in the breeze(the smell carries
through woods over lakes across oceans),
and should I close
my eyes, they’ll stretch a bit
further into
a dream(in darkness sudden flashes
of green and reds and yellows
lavender bowls of fragrance that blossom
into smoke into a melody into a gesture into
a phrase that wraps around my fingertips like
a flower-stem a leaf an ethereal petal
that will not wash out)
little flower in the field, can you
unblossom, pull back your slender petals into
a bud, reverse photosynthesis,
until you become, as you once were,
just a pretty sight? or
have your petals fallen and blown
too far and too scattered
to reassemble
back into a
little flower in the patch
The initial idea for this one doesn't actually come in until the 3rd stanza, and was sparked by my capriciously thinking of the word "unblossom" one day. I won't go into it, cause I don't want to influence any readings of this - either you get something out of it or you don't. Let me know what you think, really, any comments or ideas or observations at all, be they a thought on the poem or a criticism...they're all welcome! Thanks for reading as always!
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little flower
by Matthew Stalbaum
little flower in the patch, you have
unfurled your fingers long,
they brush against the ground,
flutter in the breeze(the smell carries
through woods over lakes across oceans),
and should I close
my eyes, they’ll stretch a bit
further into
a dream(in darkness sudden flashes
of green and reds and yellows
lavender bowls of fragrance that blossom
into smoke into a melody into a gesture into
a phrase that wraps around my fingertips like
a flower-stem a leaf an ethereal petal
that will not wash out)
little flower in the field, can you
unblossom, pull back your slender petals into
a bud, reverse photosynthesis,
until you become, as you once were,
just a pretty sight? or
have your petals fallen and blown
too far and too scattered
to reassemble
back into a
little flower in the patch
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Your Absence (A Poem)
Writing poetry's becoming a bit of a difficulty lately - I'm in more of a prose mood these days, so it feels a bit weird to just write poetry, not to mention writing it while not on a bit of a caffeine high from chugging a cup of coffee. And there's also the issue of writing at home in Maryland. The silence of the suburbs is just somewhat restricting this week, and I'm not sure why. Hopefully it won't be too much of a burden during the summer!
The inspiration for this poem actually came from the graphic novel, Mother, Come Home by Paul Hornshemeier, which tells the story of a father and son getting over a mother's recent death. The son is the narrator, and at one point he is talking about being the master of the yard, and he roughly says, "I was, in her absence, the master..." - I won't go on, for fear of butchering the line. But there were no comma's, so I read, "I was in her absence," and when I realized my misreading I just had to write it down. I was really intriguied for that brief moment of misreading in absence as a physical place.
I'll probably come back to this idea again sometime - I'm so obsessed with death these days, it can't be healthy - and I'd like to revise the stanza where the narrator talks, because I think I can do more with that. But if you have any questions, concerns, comments, criticisms, please let me know! Especially tell me if you love it or if you hate it, and especially especially if you hate it. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy!
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Your Absence
by Matthew Stalbaum
the space you left was vast, your lost
words echo against the walls through
airless expanses that no longer pulse
with your breathing, all is still.
i hid in one of the corners of
your absence, it has no feeling,
no sound or smell, no color,
it doesn't breath, it doesn't want.
outside, there is all, and here, here
there is not
but when I speak, the voice rings, warped
when it comes back - at least it is something,
and against the silence,
I only strike your name, hoping
your color smell sound feeling
could come back so
I could feel you against the walls,
and breath again with your
breathing
The inspiration for this poem actually came from the graphic novel, Mother, Come Home by Paul Hornshemeier, which tells the story of a father and son getting over a mother's recent death. The son is the narrator, and at one point he is talking about being the master of the yard, and he roughly says, "I was, in her absence, the master..." - I won't go on, for fear of butchering the line. But there were no comma's, so I read, "I was in her absence," and when I realized my misreading I just had to write it down. I was really intriguied for that brief moment of misreading in absence as a physical place.
I'll probably come back to this idea again sometime - I'm so obsessed with death these days, it can't be healthy - and I'd like to revise the stanza where the narrator talks, because I think I can do more with that. But if you have any questions, concerns, comments, criticisms, please let me know! Especially tell me if you love it or if you hate it, and especially especially if you hate it. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy!
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Your Absence
by Matthew Stalbaum
the space you left was vast, your lost
words echo against the walls through
airless expanses that no longer pulse
with your breathing, all is still.
i hid in one of the corners of
your absence, it has no feeling,
no sound or smell, no color,
it doesn't breath, it doesn't want.
outside, there is all, and here, here
there is not
but when I speak, the voice rings, warped
when it comes back - at least it is something,
and against the silence,
I only strike your name, hoping
your color smell sound feeling
could come back so
I could feel you against the walls,
and breath again with your
breathing
Thursday, March 4, 2010
As Things Are (A Poem in Progress)
I'm cheating this week on 2 levels. First, this is another poem for my poetry class (that I still need to email to my professor!), although it wasn't intentionally gonna be written for class (or at all, for that matter) - I had had an idea for a pessimistic poem a while ago, and having created my heteronym for class, he seemed like the type to write it all out. Second, this is unfinished, which is what I'm more sorry for. I haven't written much poetry on my own lately, and the ideas I've been having require more thought than spitting them out and posting them here immediately afterwards. This is mostly finished - it's got the bare bones of what I want - but there are things left unanswered that need their own stanza, and I'm not happy with the wording yet.
As for the poem itself, yeah, it's pretty depressing. The history of its creation is that, a while ago, I thought up the first two lines, because I was interested in the mindset of a person who looked so far ahead so persistently that all he could see was the inevitability of death, kind of like an existential crisis except the person is resigned to the thought. As I said, my heteronym fits that personality type, and I decided to let him write it. The 1st line of the 2nd stanza is actually from another idea I had, or rather, a fragment of an idea - during some car trip, I came up with the idea for what would've been a huge poem, with verses upon verses, and that line would've been the basis for one of them. Unfortunately, that line was the only line I remembered from the whole idea later on, and it seemed appropriate for this piece.
That's enough rambling for now. Even though this is still in its initial working stages, let me know your thoughts so I can improve it soon! Thanks for reading, here's to better things next time! (Don't I always say that?)
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As Things Are
by Max Thurleaf
Knowing the way life goes,
It is as though you were already dead,
And your bones buried deep.
Your mortality hangs off your skin
In the wrinkles that will come to weigh you down,
And they will drag you into the lake
Like so many rocks and dresses,
And though your skin is still smooth and fresh,
With the soft pink glow of your youth,
You walk lightly on your toes, and I gaze,
Looking for the first sign of death
Hanging beneath your eyes.
As for the poem itself, yeah, it's pretty depressing. The history of its creation is that, a while ago, I thought up the first two lines, because I was interested in the mindset of a person who looked so far ahead so persistently that all he could see was the inevitability of death, kind of like an existential crisis except the person is resigned to the thought. As I said, my heteronym fits that personality type, and I decided to let him write it. The 1st line of the 2nd stanza is actually from another idea I had, or rather, a fragment of an idea - during some car trip, I came up with the idea for what would've been a huge poem, with verses upon verses, and that line would've been the basis for one of them. Unfortunately, that line was the only line I remembered from the whole idea later on, and it seemed appropriate for this piece.
That's enough rambling for now. Even though this is still in its initial working stages, let me know your thoughts so I can improve it soon! Thanks for reading, here's to better things next time! (Don't I always say that?)
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As Things Are
by Max Thurleaf
Knowing the way life goes,
It is as though you were already dead,
And your bones buried deep.
Your mortality hangs off your skin
In the wrinkles that will come to weigh you down,
And they will drag you into the lake
Like so many rocks and dresses,
And though your skin is still smooth and fresh,
With the soft pink glow of your youth,
You walk lightly on your toes, and I gaze,
Looking for the first sign of death
Hanging beneath your eyes.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Roses and Baby Swings (2 Poems)
Two poems this week, you say? But why?! Because I'm lazy! I wrote both of these for my Advanced Poetry workshop - I suppose I should be slightly forgiven because they've never seen "Baby Swings," (I was sick that day), so that's technically a completely new premiere, but "Roses" has received it's criticism. I still haven't made any changes to it yet though, or written many new poems outside of class lately. I should really give myself more time for poetry, but I'm trying hard to work on Fiction so I can get more short stories posted here!
As for the poems themselves, "Baby Swings" should speak for itself, the kind of pretentious thing I'd write. "Roses" needs some explanation, or, more specifically, the name and pessimistic tone of it. It was written for an assignment to write a heteronym, which is like a pen name except complete with its own personality and biography, and my particular heteronym, Max Thurleaf, is a jaded pessimist. For more description on why this poem is the way it is, you can read my ramble on heteronyms and identities on my other blog by clicking here. I came up with an idea for a poem last night which might actually be, dare I say, a bit humerous! Actually, probably not, but I'll work on it and have that ready for next time. In the meanwhile, I hope you enjoy these, please leave comments and criticisms and such, and I'll annoy you with my writing next time!
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Roses
by Max Thurleaf
Lay verbose frills on it all you want,
Dress it with a witty phrase, an eloquent trill,
Perhaps a rhyme that flicks off the tongue;
Your rose is just a rose, just a rose,
And when you pluck a petal, it will not shine,
It will slowly wilt and wither.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Baby Swings
by Matthew Stalbaum
bars greenly yellow, holding
a row of baby swings that hang
from plastic chains, they will not rattle
in the wind, in the to & fro of
baby’s rocking, he will not cry,
when he falls he will bounce against
fake ground, plush matting,
waterproof stainproof scarproof
(leave no marks on the baby, no
fingerprints on the bars) ageproof
he will crawl away, up a slide
perhaps, for a bigger fall
As for the poems themselves, "Baby Swings" should speak for itself, the kind of pretentious thing I'd write. "Roses" needs some explanation, or, more specifically, the name and pessimistic tone of it. It was written for an assignment to write a heteronym, which is like a pen name except complete with its own personality and biography, and my particular heteronym, Max Thurleaf, is a jaded pessimist. For more description on why this poem is the way it is, you can read my ramble on heteronyms and identities on my other blog by clicking here. I came up with an idea for a poem last night which might actually be, dare I say, a bit humerous! Actually, probably not, but I'll work on it and have that ready for next time. In the meanwhile, I hope you enjoy these, please leave comments and criticisms and such, and I'll annoy you with my writing next time!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Roses
by Max Thurleaf
Lay verbose frills on it all you want,
Dress it with a witty phrase, an eloquent trill,
Perhaps a rhyme that flicks off the tongue;
Your rose is just a rose, just a rose,
And when you pluck a petal, it will not shine,
It will slowly wilt and wither.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Baby Swings
by Matthew Stalbaum
bars greenly yellow, holding
a row of baby swings that hang
from plastic chains, they will not rattle
in the wind, in the to & fro of
baby’s rocking, he will not cry,
when he falls he will bounce against
fake ground, plush matting,
waterproof stainproof scarproof
(leave no marks on the baby, no
fingerprints on the bars) ageproof
he will crawl away, up a slide
perhaps, for a bigger fall
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Roses in a Makeshift Vase (A Poem)
Another poem I wrote just now at the time of this post! I don't mind writing poems on the spot, it's mostly the neglect of posting short stories that I feel guilty about. After the story I'm currently working on I'm gonna do some revising, so hopefully I'll have some prose to post semi-soon.
There is, indeed, an empty bottle of Jack Daniels filled with 3 roses (2 red, 1 yellow) and tap water on my desk. For Valentine's Day, my RA taped roses to everyone's door, which of course means their inevitable death (as happened to most of them). Since I live in a quad, there were 4 roses on our door, so I gave the only one I thought would live to a friend, who is caring for another rose. I felt too guilty to throw the others away though, so I washed out the empty bottle, filled it with water, and plopped them in. Things were grim at first, but they seem to be doing pretty well now. I wasn't initially gonna write about them, but I will admit, I have grown a bit attached to them - I glance over at them constantly to see if they're doing better.
I was gonna post for Valentine's Day but didn't have time, so this will have to do - I posted about crushes on my other blog. It's definitely a rough poem, but let me know your thoughts so I can improve it! Thanks for reading, hope everyone enjoyed their V-Day, until next time!
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Roses in a Makeshift Vase
by Matthew Stalbaum
in a liquor bottle filled with tap water,
withered roses that look
mostly of death, but color
remains, red's blush, yellow's sunlight,
their heads hang low (I pick one up
in my fingers, but let it fall
again, afraid of my touch) they still smell
of the garden
from where they were plucked, the green air
they breathed so deep
one blossoms, its petal fan,
its edges slightly stale, but full
in the middle, will the leaves
of the other grow soft again?
i cannot do without them, they breath
as I breath, nodding to sunlight,
should I awake to hard brown petals, they'll stay
in water, until I know it lies still, until
they cease to be roses, just husks, and
i'm alone
There is, indeed, an empty bottle of Jack Daniels filled with 3 roses (2 red, 1 yellow) and tap water on my desk. For Valentine's Day, my RA taped roses to everyone's door, which of course means their inevitable death (as happened to most of them). Since I live in a quad, there were 4 roses on our door, so I gave the only one I thought would live to a friend, who is caring for another rose. I felt too guilty to throw the others away though, so I washed out the empty bottle, filled it with water, and plopped them in. Things were grim at first, but they seem to be doing pretty well now. I wasn't initially gonna write about them, but I will admit, I have grown a bit attached to them - I glance over at them constantly to see if they're doing better.
I was gonna post for Valentine's Day but didn't have time, so this will have to do - I posted about crushes on my other blog. It's definitely a rough poem, but let me know your thoughts so I can improve it! Thanks for reading, hope everyone enjoyed their V-Day, until next time!
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Roses in a Makeshift Vase
by Matthew Stalbaum
in a liquor bottle filled with tap water,
withered roses that look
mostly of death, but color
remains, red's blush, yellow's sunlight,
their heads hang low (I pick one up
in my fingers, but let it fall
again, afraid of my touch) they still smell
of the garden
from where they were plucked, the green air
they breathed so deep
one blossoms, its petal fan,
its edges slightly stale, but full
in the middle, will the leaves
of the other grow soft again?
i cannot do without them, they breath
as I breath, nodding to sunlight,
should I awake to hard brown petals, they'll stay
in water, until I know it lies still, until
they cease to be roses, just husks, and
i'm alone
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Love's Not a Poem (A Poem)
In an attempt to rectify myself for last night's mediocre posting, I'm posting this, which is as equally unpolished as "Older and Older" but sounds prettier...and I just wrote it! This is one that will go through a lot of changes because it's something that I've been thinking about a lot, but the beginning came to me last night as I was in bed, and I jotted it down as a note in my phone and liked it. Like I said, it needs a lot of tweaking, so please give me comments on it so I can know needs fixing, what sounds bad, what sounds good, etc. Thanks!
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Love's Not a Poem
by Matthew Stalbaum
Are you in
love? then do
not wait, do not stop
to write a poem
(his smile his chin his arms drape
across your hip and end at
your chest, your breath, your heart)
would be a waste of breath
to spend in kissing
(his smile his chin his fingertips
off now, explore
crevices and plains along
a body beneath yours, he
will kiss in ways a poem cannot
flick off the tongue
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Love's Not a Poem
by Matthew Stalbaum
Are you in
love? then do
not wait, do not stop
to write a poem
(his smile his chin his arms drape
across your hip and end at
your chest, your breath, your heart)
would be a waste of breath
to spend in kissing
(his smile his chin his fingertips
off now, explore
crevices and plains along
a body beneath yours, he
will kiss in ways a poem cannot
flick off the tongue
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Older and Older (A Poem)
This is a week of throw-away posts, so I'm posting a poem I'm not so sure about. This is the one I mentioned last week, where I'm not quite sure myself what some of the parts mean anymore. My post on my other blog was a huge, ultimately aimless rant, and I don't much feel like revising/rewriting any of my other poems, so I'm posting this one. I'm being honest about my lackluster posting because, for one thing, I doubt anyone will read this post, and for another thing, I feel bad for just posting for the sake of posting, instead of working to have something coherent and, well, better. At least I'm being consistent with my other blog!
If anyone does manage to read this, though, the title and content hopefully get the topic across. It's all probably a little too abstract, but I'm still thinking over style and technique, so hopefully I'll come back with something a bit more polished next time. I do like that line though, "Now is a tricky thing." Anyways, leave comments/criticisms as always, thanks for reading, tune in next week for hopefully better stuff!
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Older and Older
by Matthew Stalbaum
I.
The older I get, the more
I am sure that I am
Older, that
I am never sure,
And also,
But I can’t recall it,
Was there a moment ago and now,
Now is a tricky thing
II.
The hair grows thin and parts, fades
(grass grows lush and seas
churn still and again), I
Fade, thinly grow, part and back
still &again, still &again (love
sunsets dreaming sunrise loss)
neveragain, neveragain (love
a sunrise lightning in darkness return)
While nails grow and grow and grow
(creaking stretching moaning on… )
A last night of sleep, and then
(notnever again notnever again…)
A first morning, dew on flowerheads
And showerheads and heads with
Hair, growing lush, still and again
If anyone does manage to read this, though, the title and content hopefully get the topic across. It's all probably a little too abstract, but I'm still thinking over style and technique, so hopefully I'll come back with something a bit more polished next time. I do like that line though, "Now is a tricky thing." Anyways, leave comments/criticisms as always, thanks for reading, tune in next week for hopefully better stuff!
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Older and Older
by Matthew Stalbaum
I.
The older I get, the more
I am sure that I am
Older, that
I am never sure,
And also,
But I can’t recall it,
Was there a moment ago and now,
Now is a tricky thing
II.
The hair grows thin and parts, fades
(grass grows lush and seas
churn still and again), I
Fade, thinly grow, part and back
still &again, still &again (love
sunsets dreaming sunrise loss)
neveragain, neveragain (love
a sunrise lightning in darkness return)
While nails grow and grow and grow
(creaking stretching moaning on… )
A last night of sleep, and then
(notnever again notnever again…)
A first morning, dew on flowerheads
And showerheads and heads with
Hair, growing lush, still and again
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Impossible & Never and Dying Star (2 Poems!)
I'm posting 2 poems, mostly because they're smallish and unpolished, and also because the longer one I wrote recently is a wee bit out there and I need to look at it again and figure out...well, what the hell some of the lines are talking about, I'm pretty sure I wasn't high at the time of its creation but those nonsense phrases suggest otherwise. Anyways, here a couple of light-hearted little things I wrote. The first one was inspired by my friend Christina, from a blog-post she wrote (she hasn't updated in a while so bug her to do that if you like her blog, cause hers is infinitely more helpful towards worldly affairs than mine!), and it's not perfect, needs a little more thought and meditation probably, but it's at least presentable I think. The second one also needs more thought, but I'll (hopefully) hear from you guys if anything needs to be changed or if there are suggestions.
Considering that I'm in a poetry workshop this semester, I expect the next few weeks will mostly be poetry, but I'm rewriting a short story right now (while still going through a crisis of subject-material and style), so there could perhaps be another one of those soon enough...by then I expect to be wildly famous and have millions of readers. Ha! As I always say, comments/criticisms are welcome and appreciated, and I hope these were short enough so that, if they don't entertain, they're not a waste of your time. Thanks for visiting my shadow of the internet!
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Impossible and Never
by Matthew Stalbaum
Remember that impossible and never
Are biggish things that
Puff out their chests and hurumph and ah-ha!
While Maybe and Possibly – smallish
Though generous – will carry your hand
With a smile through the dust of your dreams
---------------------------------------------------------
Dying Star
by Matthew Stalbaum
Last light
Flicker out, fade, rest
Let long smoky tendrils drift
Collide and spark, engulf
Into an i he she, who
Looks out at your brothers
And feels the kindred bond
Considering that I'm in a poetry workshop this semester, I expect the next few weeks will mostly be poetry, but I'm rewriting a short story right now (while still going through a crisis of subject-material and style), so there could perhaps be another one of those soon enough...by then I expect to be wildly famous and have millions of readers. Ha! As I always say, comments/criticisms are welcome and appreciated, and I hope these were short enough so that, if they don't entertain, they're not a waste of your time. Thanks for visiting my shadow of the internet!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Impossible and Never
by Matthew Stalbaum
Remember that impossible and never
Are biggish things that
Puff out their chests and hurumph and ah-ha!
While Maybe and Possibly – smallish
Though generous – will carry your hand
With a smile through the dust of your dreams
---------------------------------------------------------
Dying Star
by Matthew Stalbaum
Last light
Flicker out, fade, rest
Let long smoky tendrils drift
Collide and spark, engulf
Into an i he she, who
Looks out at your brothers
And feels the kindred bond
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