ajulea

I hang grey cotton soaked in worry, like water that fills me to the brim, up to dry in cerulean blue skies and call them clouds on sunny days, like today, when high winds drown out sad songs and red wallflowers bloom from cracks i…

I press red oleanders in between yellowed pages of a journal bound in black leather skinned from a frozen heart which had begged for a simple eulogy (and a poison bloom is as good as any). This circulatory system housed more glue than blo…

I stranded my poems on storefronts and on deadend streets in crisscrossed lanes of the maze I called my city. They looked to me like three year old boys lost at the fair in the country heat, silver ribbons dancing in their eyes three seconds b…

The rain, like a stampede of migrating wildebeest on the Seregeti, was clamorous all week. I captured some of it in the dry ink lined barrel of the green fountain pen that carved me into a poet. I’ll write with rainwater; confessions can…

They don’t tell you that the line between love and war is only a line segment, beyond which they spill over and merge into one. We are bullet holes in the clouds through which the sky bleeds azure into the midsummer outlines of a monochromat…

I first saw dawn from the other side of the night through a blotted ink drop in my dark brown curtains. It was five a.m. and I stubbed my toe trying to push the violet filter away from the window. The aquamarine strains of a magpie robi…

Summer munched on popcorn clouds leaving the sky blue and exposed to the June wind that hummed a slow rendition of songs which had drowned in the fall of two thousand and thirteen. Our silhouettes played on the roof like magenta paper fl…

home clung to me like loose clothes and hung in clouds that followed me up the stairs and hovered over my bed like mercurial sighs while I melted into the night. home was a shortness of breath and a puddle of guilt– stale corn flakes and s…

I am a figment of your imagination– a timeless whisper of truth and fantasy that slipped through ancient cages of all that I shouldn’t be. I have the scars to prove to none I am all that you cannot see….

Town bells knolled in tall towers– a countdown to the last hours. The sound, like cragged lines in rugged planes, stuck out like veins of earth reaching for the skies, almost at the finish line. We were pink leaves, fresh as dawn, captur…