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Category: My Writing Challenges



You should know by now that we can’t go back. Not like this. Not back through the electric fence or past the sheep, dehydrated and teeming. Past the mailboxes and songs. Our bodies are like their bodies now, stormed over and pale with all this sunlight and dung. We never should have come out here, never should have left our homes, opened our doors. Agoraphobia. The witnessing of the sun. How pointless. How many times do I have to tell you? The trees are singing. They turn to you with bark in their faces and tell you this is how it’s going to be, out here, the moment we step down from our porches. We grow up, and we manage to lose everything.


August 2014_Poem 14_Memories


August 14, 2014, MLT




A Demonstration


There was no other way to tell you that life was harmful: threw the box into the river, filled with rocks, with you, with light. There is nothing left but stars.


August 2014_Poem 12_A Demonstration


August 12, 2014, MLT




A Tribute


Tears burn yellow, burn wide, in the sun. The small sunflower seeds left over along your collar and in your hair. They are senseless, aimless, unceasing. This is the definition of mourning. It is a marionette, a song, unweaving.


August 2014_Poem 11_A Tribute


August 11, 2014, MLT






and concern. There is a vase of the yellow masses in the window. They remain motionless despite the sound of the air cracking, the belt. Thirteen, fourteen. His body, in this space, is pointless.


August 2014_Poem 10_Sunflowers,


August 10, 2014, MLT




Dragonflies: A Snapshot


In the rain, they are too small. The wings, the small holes, the designs, are filled with water. Their bodies glisten. I collected a jar of them and kept them in the garage for winter, one side frosted with window air. Their bodies quickly froze to the sides, a strange kaleidoscope of purple and blue. In the spring, under the sun, their bodies turned green and fell to the bottom of the glass, shattering.


August 2014, Poem 9, Dragonflies-A Snapshot


August 9, 2014, MLT




In Plain Sight


Left out on the farm, there is the threat to turn cold. The discovery of the skeleton of an opossum on the line between the yard and the field, blending into the rocks. Like a small jesus—and the wise men are touching walking sticks to forehead. I think of picking it up, taking it home, burying it, and do none, realize it is better off this way: lasting so long in silence.


August 2014_Poem 8_In Plain Sight


August 8, 2014, MLT




Caterpillar Towns


Look at the way the body separates; the individual, round skulls—the rotation, the turn, the hum. The brains lift down into the feet, small propellers. As if you and I were connected, somehow.


August 2014_Poem 7_Caterpillar Towns


August 7, 2014, MLT




Running Behind on Sharing Postcards


Hi all—Sorry for the lag on posting my daily project for the 2014 August Poetry Postcard Fest. I’ve been completing these postcards daily but have not had the time to actually post the pictures. Stay tuned, and I’ll have that caught up in a day or two!




I’ll Be Honest,


Weeds are meant to be pulled. Their wide, twine roots,
boxing everything else in. It all takes so little time, the
swarm, they take over. I struggle with the beautiful
ones, negotiate their responsibility, and end up pulling
them up anyway. Guts and roots. A brutal cycle. Like
us in a snow storm, all fear: cloth on white.


August 2014_Poem 5_I'll Be Honest


August 5, 2014, MLT