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poetry

The Magic of Grammar

Poor Grammar. It has such a strong, hateful stereotype, doesn't it? People call it unnecessary, ugly, devious, and even sadistic. But Grammar and its convention henchmen are actually quite helpful and vital to the English language, at least literarily. The... Continue Reading →

Grazing Between the Chaos and the Calm

I am standing on the bridge between chaos and tranquility, between crimson and greenery. I want to drink from that well of blue water, to graze beneath the hearts of rounded mountains. I want to stop and dance with the... Continue Reading →

Waiting List (Also, I’m Back!)

I’ve spent countless days blowing thought bubbles above my head. I decide which thoughts are scribbled on my waiting list: which ones suspend in the stars, which ones hover over the moon, which ones waltz with the waves-- this list... Continue Reading →

If Poets Were High Schoolers

Happy Friday! This weekend, I'm planning on seeing a comedic play about the relationship between Edgar Allan Poe and Emily Dickinson, which made me think of doing something like this. Here's a humorous piece that places modern-day labels on famous... Continue Reading →

Solace

When everything churns and sinks in reverse and the moon pulls back its tides with taut strings, the waves of the ocean crash and disperse in the tumult of my imaginings.   But oh, let the continents shift and quake,... Continue Reading →

The Rose

A delicate rose perched on a bush, her hand beneath her chin. Her sigh froze dew drops in the air; her patience was waning thin. For she was awaiting Autumn— he hadn’t visited in days— and he had promised that... Continue Reading →

The Librarian

There is a librarian who organizes fluttering memories. The birds fly in with ebony words smeared on their wings and they always soar with more questions than answers; her thoughts are dust-covered dancers twirling behind crumbling books locked in skyscraper-shelves;... Continue Reading →

Why I Wanted to Be a Writer

I used to want to be an astronaut, floating above the earth and watching the stars; instead of a story teller, I wanted to be a listener. My great-grandmother wobbled over to the dining room table every morning to slip... Continue Reading →

To Love a Bird (Is to Paint Her Red)

I am azure-headed, ruby-breasted, emerald-winged. I flutter into your embrace, only God and His sun as my witnesses. You tell me that I dazzle color, even when my feathers are plucked, even when all that is visible is the white... Continue Reading →

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