Birgitte

First new #poem in a while

#poem

#poem

LinkedIn #poem

Erasure poem on a page in Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason: Now, we must stop employment this mere illusion and experience time and space.

#erasurepoem
Kantlator has the Sunday blues

Reading my #poem When snow is about to fall.

As a compensation for a tiredness brought on by the lack of empty rooms with soft, warm light and old wooden floorboards that creak under my boots when I walk in and position myself in what I guess is the room's middle to let my arms hang down heavy my fists unclenched, my palms vibrating at the relief of not needing to reach or sell anything, I have started buying lemons with green leaves still attached. I have skinned and squeezed them but their leaves are drying in the bowl detached reminders of something hopeful with deep roots. @neural_delirium

#poem

It isn’t easy without a body. Air is thick when nothing pushes against it. Words are still there, and trees, their bark hesitantly cold and full of waiting life. Orange Christmas lights glowing on a red fence in a driveway. It’s their dream. They can make it snow now but they want to hold on to the night as it is when snow is about to fall but still hasn’t.

Before snow dream #poem

FAR Q: Can I talk to the forest through the keyhole? A: Yes, but keep the syllable count low. And please avoid long vowels. They stick to the leaves and make autumn arrive early. If your words are on the heavy side, kindly squeeze them through on a windy day when the leaves are already rustling. Q: Will the forest answer my questions? A: There has been some disagreement regarding this. Some argue that if you pick up a fallen, green leaf shortly after pushing your question words through the keyhole you can feel the answer by detaching the veins from the leaf blade and stitching them with white thread to a shirt your wear often. The stitches have to be on the inside so you can feel the forest answer when the leaf veins brush against your skin. A: Others say that the forest never answers questions.

FAQ #poem

These are the instructions Make coffee. Pour it. Hold a pen between your index and middle finger. Still holding the pen, rest the back of your hand on your thigh. Still holding the pen, nip tilted upwards, pick up the mug: Drink from it. Look out the window through the small triangle between the mug and the nip. There you have it. That time, the movements it held, and the triangle. It all belonged to you.

These are the instructions #poem

A Theory of Windows There is space enough in the world for one more small body, a boat, an unfamiliar cleft of constellation. Hello, field of loss. You’ve been a story of so much waste. I saw each thawing danger and thought still I could die anywhere. The foxglove, vesperal and wounded. Shards of witchgrass like vignettes wholly in the teeth of an orchard. I knew this place less because I made it empty and waiting for disaster. I have no other fight. To get light in the body you love you must crack it open.

Hello, field of loss.

Jessica Bixel

gran's old blue coat
bus tickets to the past
in her pocket

#DailyHaikuPrompt (coat)
#haiku #prompt

Poem on a photo of a sunflower on a balcony. Text on image: It’s November, the woman has forgotten how a summer feels, but the sunflower is still standing on the balcony, most petals intact and all. The woman asks it: If the neighbor comes out to smoke and sees me behead you will he think it’s: A: Gardening? B: A rescue mission? C: Simply brutal? Or will he understand the need to hold on to yellow for a little longer?

Questions for a November sunflower. #poetry

The solution is to doubt human reason and question words always.

One of my Kantlator #erasurepoems in which I, depending on how you look at it, either brutally destroy or carefully distill a page in Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason.

How much of a thought is language that has been stripped of whatever came before?
The little brown frog we saw on the asphalt today,
I thought he was a leaf
but the way his leg stretched backwards suggested
a long jump we hadn't seen.
One that was still vibrating in his tiny webbed feet.
#poem

Sun on seagull wings
a magpie on a wire
a crow is looking
into the future
her eyes as sure as falling keys.
#poetry #poetrycommunity

#poem
When they cut out a small square of the asphalt
they didn't expect to find the crown of a tree.
That night nobody slept but their hope was bigger.

She had built a little sculpture, it wasn't much to look at. The red dress made it bolder. Nobody had given much thought to, or asked, what material she had used to build it. She was not exactly secretive, and, had they asked, she might have told them. They asked about other things. The red dress, who had made it? Was it meant for a doll? Why was the fabric so thick rough even? The choice of dress, she told them, had been a coincidence of sorts. A rag, given to her, that, when she found it in a drawer, had been crumbled up in the shape of a body, a bright red body, on fire, almost, in the morning light next to her own pale wrists. Faceless, as it now was, the sculpture had, nevertheless, created a language of its own. From its shelf in the museum cafeteria it would crumble, just enough, for visitors to look up to find out where the dust on their trays had come from. That way, the sculpture moved in and out of people's minds while its rough red dress grew larger and more billowing.

Dream script #poem

#poem

Do you crave spring that selfishly?

If asked
would you take the place of a dormant Winter Aconite
or would you dig a tunnel
in the still-frozen dirt
crawl in and curl up under its tangled roots
just close enough
to coax and encourage it
to bloom using only your breath? #poem

Morning mist wings barely touching a square of a life in the leaves outside the bedroom window too temporary too small
to let us stay.

#poem #poetry

By then