Filed under: emotions, love, poetry, writing | Tags: air, poetry, science, water
Oh king of vacillant winds and discarded dreams,
why did you come into mine?
I wanted to lose you in the vastness of my oceans,
but you are air…
my tidal words will never wash you out.
I drew your oxygen inside me
and your warmth excited me to vapor.
I saturated your willing currents
until their heat dissipated and I condensed into clouds
before my gravity forced me from you.
Now the sky is empty and I am scattered.
I can see the stars as fragments of myself
are swallowed into the blackness of the ground.
Constricted in darkness and dirt, I gather
while the earth absorbs my salt and poisons.
I carve streams as I sink into my rocky bed and
I rest, guarded from the influence of the surface.
Filed under: beliefs, emotions, love, poetry, writing | Tags: emotions, Love, poetry, relationships, writing
Love is neither desperate nor disinterested;
there are no pedestals involved.
It does not beg for change and cry
when it does not come.
It (mostly) does not dwell on angry words
or spit them back.
It strives to be patient, attentive, and kind.
It focuses on passions and talents
and watches them grow.
Love is a dynamic work of art,
ending only when both put down the brush.
Thousands of tiny feet secreting slime
so it can steadily creep
(using muscular contractions)
up the vertical, but pitted face
of self confidence.
The trail attracts others.
They mate, cords of mucus
suspend their writhing bodies
until both are spent.
They lay about thirty eggs each.
Armed with salt, still haven’t killed them all.
Filed under: art, multi-media, poetry, space, writing | Tags: art, illustration, nature, painting, poetry, space, space tree, surreal, trees, writing
This tree floats in outer space,
and late each night
I’m at its base,
Filed under: beauty, Death, emotions, Nature, poetry, Trees, writing | Tags: death, poetry, tombstones, trees, writing
When I die, don’t buy me a tombstone
or an inscribed statuary…
I enjoy rocks as much as the next girl,
but I have no need of them when I’m dead.
Instead bury me someplace high
and plant a Norway Spruce.
Carve my name. Tell it your wishes.
Know the tree is me
and let me shade you.
Claire Thalken 2013
CarvingCalf – Calves are the young of domestic cattle. →