I don’t care for leaning
into the hurt.
in crystalline mud and, meditating
on the chills that run
through the undercurrent
of my skin.
I prefer moving, moving —
exhausting my legs — an attempt
to surpass the clouds’ pace overhead,
until I reach the goal at rainbow’s end.
Why would I nurture a perversion of nature?
I understood C.S. Lewis’s
philosophical apology, charging all that is bad
as corruption of the first —
And why console the soulless?
Hypothermia will take your toes without consent,
like the thief that sickness is;
and without hands to…
How can I write of beauty in ruin
when writing is my very exorcism?
Demons crowd the page
laughing and dancing.
and mocking me.
Now my mind is buzzing
for the things I could say
from a wonderment of the suspect
shaping the eyes in my “o’s”
to subjects more intangible.
Like ghosts of inked words,
thoughts dodge my inquiring inner flashlight.
Do you glean my meaning?
Once, she gleamed,
moving with me,
highlighting my every periphery.
and then — she vanished,
as though she wasn’t, isn’t, and
never will be.
That’s transience at work.
and the more things change,
I’m telling you how I feel,
And this is my voice.
My quiet voice, growing like moss
on the bottom of amphitheater seats.
My voice is quiet,
a microphone’s chord,
In the place where it snugly runs
under closed wardrobe door.
I used to sing with passion in private,
but musing lyrics are offbeat hums
in open rooms with no room for drums.
My voice is shy,
a dog’s toy with punctured squeaking heart.
But my thoughts line the panels of my throat,
filled with smoke and fire’s remains.
Each time I speak, I yearn for voice,
And when I cry, I mourn my…
After first pass, I wonder if eudaemonia
might have form
in the capitol city of Utopia
maybe it’s caught in the pages of Arcadia’s
Declaration of Independence or maybe it’s
cross-stitched through the navels
of a Dystopian people,
a blanket of space-time
holding everyone together and
splitting them all horizontally in half.
But I revisited the margins of my weekday
a place where fairies and witches
lull my spelling.
and I practiced the rigid lines and
the sparse curves of the word,
until I got it right,
and Aristotle arose from his home in the Collective Mind
But I have hands with
to a pianist's feathering ache to play,
by 20 milligrams of propranolol downed
with my rising cough each morning.
A small, but spiking taste
- like a doll-sized coin of powder-pressed bleach -
in my haste to smother the pill in my body and pretend
that the no-known cause diagnostic
isn't within my hands’ reach to understand.
My house isn't a temple
and my hands don't tremble
with anticipatory joy
when I will my walls to straighten
- my posture to perfection -
My feet to flatten into the floor
my vain mind yet…
What do you think makes them so happy?
That they don’t feel the itch of the stitches in their tear-ducts
compelling torn nails to tear them through,
by each day’s nearing end?
That you would never know
they’ve revisited crime scenes
and splashed red footprints
onto waving shore’s floor,
stepping the face on the milk carton down,
hidden again, for seven years more?
~Written by Chloe P. Hawes
I wrote this poem perhaps a year ago. And it’s not much — it’s not a piece riddled with wordplay and grand metaphors, open to a million different interpretations. A relatively short…
I feel God’s temperance when the sky breaks
and not anger, but perhaps a loving restraint.
A blink of my eyes and I barely catch a snapshot
of a lone crack in the glass of our shaken snow globe.
like fiercely wrought slashes,
without pencil leaving the page
Or like multitudinous spinsters’ arms, stretched
fingertip to fingertip —
both up higher
conflicting with the dark,
imitating their partnered stars:
a crack, illuminated from the outside.
Mirroring an inch of a life-sized model earth’s equator
but its circumferential perfection perverted
by pieces of cloud charging down
as bulbous pinpoints,
striking the curved…
the Tower of Babel’s root,
before its soiled foundation;
And how our synonymous language
Before concrete came, and tar to patch
Marred ankles, strained from pain
Before we cracked —
when we took paths
Across the Bering Strait.
of tall-tale histories
were written in cursive
Across our collective brain —
We piled these bodies dying
into slowly moving
mountains of ants
As we traveled perfect words
From rushed lungs utterly crushed,
last call to topple the vain,
to popping ears and blue-plumed lips,
demanding the fall of the reign.
Criminal defense attorney, honest and voracious poet, and dedicated writer.