Petit Four 15: An Honest Love Letter

To those of us who know love is both trying and triumphant:

Petitfour15

Keep Writing

–ECW

Petit Four 8: Burlesque Indeed

I know it’s a little late, but this poem is better suited for the evening – I confess…

Petitfour8

To my darling, who is snoring at this very moment…

–ECW

Poetry & Joy

Last night

My fiance and I stayed up past midnight with our flashlights and read the first five sections of

Walt Whitman’s Song of Self.

It felt like camping; like a secret.

I can remember loving poetry all my life. I remember loving the intricate lace of language. The taste and tecture of words. But this was the first time I shared it with someone that way.

The phrases popped in my mouth, on my tongue, in the way they were meant to…

I am certain now that poetry is meant to be shared in love, lamented in loss, raised up and out of our throats in heightened states so that we may see the light in it: the spaces between each and every vowel waiting to be wrenched open.

Share some Poetry with those you love!

Keep Writing

–ECW

Poem 151

a poem for my love which has yet to present a title:

I popped your epiphany

in my mouth—for safe keeping

I didn’t want to loose it

so I spoke it every moment

you were away//such a long while

oh cannibal—nibbling you loose

with my tongue\\when simply we dis

solved one onto the other

I touched my thumb to each of my

fingers to prove I was awake and you

said over and over that we would never

come apart now—not now not ever—but I

had known that all along.

—ECW

Poem 147

for a dear friend struggling with her young-voids, a poem for inspiration, or perhaps just proof that we are all the same.

selfmedicated

Maybe for a long while—

a sense of waiting, of bone loss

of time on lines running through our bodies

together rolling on a wild hushed open

I had hopes of closure before…

the long wide brush which cups the desert

and makes us whole. It’s never too soon to ration

our matches. Never too early to siphon our love.

I had known of secret rituals—bringing back the dead

young lies we knew so helplessly wrong,

and yet, some other afterlife

was always better-still

—ECW

Poem 146

Hey poets. School has been kicking my bum! Hope to write more soon…
A woman came in to the library today and needed help printing her poems as gifts. They were simple but I was inspired by her blissful writer-glow. I need to write more, in a small way it’s more important than anything else

nonleapyears

In case of wax flowers

know this—we are well thread

in the eyelashes of all things                     &this

hardly a coincidence we have

the same hair—espresso except

in summer, forever lovelier remembered

&this

heavier with time, unfolded over and over

&this

hollow quiet space which I filled w/ sleep-signs

ah-feather-be we wander wishful, pinkytied

&quiet

something humble this way grows

from the earth we come wide-eyed except

in summer, when our mouths are open &this

is the quietest place we can be: together

holding out for rain

&rain&rain&rain

—ECW