Blaugh

poetry archive



The wind this time isn't like the others.
It doesn't buffet any long-sore places,
Or tear the sand away from secrets.
It leaves everything alone,
Merely breathes upon the surface
of things I never noticed before.




Past the flowers
all of them
competing for my bright attention
leaves of shade
silent and cool 
where you wait for me




every day
I laugh
and push
death aside
every
day




The things that will not leave your mind
a flake of tobacco
the curl of sugar flesh
fingers
smells
stars overhead
the heft of a body withdrawn
to another place
but not gone
not gone



something washed against me when you spoke
like the cold blue earth curving up to meet
the mortal soles of my feet
a surge
a tide
a memory formed before I was born
on the bottom of the ocean
you coming into being
while I was coming into light
as if I were the soil awaiting you




older poems

I wrote most of these between 10 and 15 years old. Some of them rhyme, which I know is out of fashion these days, but I still love them. They remind me of that weird and awful / wonderful phase of my life.