I had not thought of violets late,
The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet
In wistful April days, when lovers mate
And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.
The thought of violets meant florists’ shops,
And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;
And garish lights, and mincing little fops
And cabarets and soaps, and deadening wines.
So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,
I had forgot wide fields; and clear brown streams;
The perfect loveliness that God has made,—
Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams.
And now—unwittingly, you’ve made me dream
Of violets, and my soul’s forgotten gleam.

© Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson – Source: Poetry Foundation

Alone in the library room, even when others
Are there in the room, alone, except for themselves:
There is the illusion of peace; the air in the room
Is stilled; there are reading lights on the tables,
Looking as if they’re reading, looking as if
They’re studying the text, and understanding,

Shedding light on what the words are saying;
But under their steady imbecile gaze the page
Is blank, patiently waiting not to be blank.

The page is blank until the mind that reads
Crosses the black river, seeking the Queen
Of the Underworld, Persephone, where she sits

By the side of the one who brought her there from Enna,
Hades the mute, the deaf, king of the dead letter;
She is clothed in the beautiful garment of our thousand

Misunderstandings of the sacred text.

© David Ferry – Source: Poem Hunter

Someone standing at the mouth had
the idea to enter. To go further

than light or language could
go. As they followed
the idea, light and language followed

like two wolves—panting, hearing themselves
panting. A shapeless scent
in the damp air …

Keep going, the idea said.

Someone kept going. Deeper and deeper, they saw
others had been there. Others had left

objects that couldn’t have found their way
there alone. Ocher-stained shells. Bird bones. Grounded
hematite. On the walls,

as if stepping into history, someone saw
their purpose: cows. Bulls. Bison. Deer. Horses—
some pregnant, some slaughtered.

The wild-
life seemed wild and alive, moving

when someone moved, casting their shadows
on the shadows stretching
in every direction. Keep going,

the idea said again. Go …

Someone continued. They followed the idea so far inside that
outside was another idea.

© Paul Tran – Source: Poetry Foundation

Gothic Style Throne Room by Concept Artist Joey Leung on ArtStation

How quickly our thrones become cages

from a single stroke of misery.

Convinced our legacies past

are erased by hidden difficulty.

Dismay destructs our strengths

lighting fire at our feet;

weakness become more transparent

than the thinnest silk sheets.

Don’t forget your prudence

in hours of adversity.

Unlock your cage and venture

to rebuild and ground your dignity.

You don’t know this about me,

you flirting, busy bee,

but I’m hurt by the ghost you’ve become.

Haunted for years by shallowness,

not that you are, but I’m so distressed

by the ephemeral fading you’ve done

in my life as a picture, out as a memory.

Back in again, posing so charmingly,

far from my lips, a spectral self-dismissed.

Perhaps your tease is punishing me

for ruining the first date so ignorantly.

No apology could summon that could’ve been kiss.

I’m aching, but not complaining.

Your beauty constant is reigning.

So haunt and prove you don’t need me.

My reflections affirm the needed solitude

before loving with a confident attitude,

and the attentiveness you deserve, busy bee.

So ghost shamelessly, dear.

You deserve the best.

I’m sorry you met me

at my pitiful worst.


More Poetry

Prose of the High Priestess

Blind With My Flesh – Judicium

Distanced

Confidence


photo of woman carrying a cardboard

No Justice, No Peace – [News/Website Update]

The page that was once “Stand Up – BLM/LGBTQ+” is now No Justice, No Peace, which provides resources, volunteer/donation opportunities, and more regarding the institutional and system prejudices being perpetuated in the USA. The page has been updated to include the Stop Asian Hate movement. I will soon be adding sources regarding how you can […]

In hours and increments

I realize your distance

is no longer sentenced

to a timezone away.

For hours I search,

recalling your flirts

fading in the spurt

of my grief and dismay.

Wherever you are, Angel,

I’ll wait again,

for hours upon hours

upon hours still.

In these hours upon hours,

I’m longing.

Sour at myself

for losing

you

in a second…

…then not noticing

for hours.

Forgive me.

Prose of The High Priestess

Close your eyes. Fall. Let her catch you; if she doesn’t, know that there’s no intention to break your trust, but unconsciously keep a better promise through a deep dive into your psyche.

Close your eyes. Listen. Even when your eyes are open, you can feel her screaming in your most vulnerable places; your gut and your heart. Relentlessly, she struggles against your consciousness that is almost convinced to ignore her and instead let outside forces have the final say.