poetry

Project Honey

By Amy Thomson

Shoes shuffled squares of grey,
Arm in arm one Spring Thursday,
House museums lined the streets,
Project Honey we would complete.

Ceiling portals opened wide,
Honey sister by my side,
Lights shined through the dancing plaster,
Heartbeats raced faster, faster.

Sticky membranes were my sky,
She saw jungles through her third eye,
Sank beneath the arctic sea,
With my favorite honeybee.

Lava lamps and Christmas lights
Were our suns on this great night.
Venus kept us safe and sound,
In our girl hive, sisters bound.

Then flew in the phallic drones,
We had to leave our royal thrones.
Flew outside to pollinate,
Struggled just to acclimate.

Seeds of fear sprouted their buds,
Water drops became flash floods.
Spooked by gutter’s gurgling mouth,
Sisters started flying south.

I had to leave my fellow queen,
Returned to my hive, began to wean
Never would we forget this trip,
In our golden honey ship.

 

 

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poetry

Treasure Chest

By Amy Thomson

Mind control,
head too full,
start to leak,
though I’m not weak.
Pour through lips,
first little sips,
then waves storm out,
rosebud pout,
dancing along your eardrums.
Peeling thumbs
kills the hums
drumming on my skull.
You pull me in,
your skin a sin,
your chest a treasure,
such pleasure I find
in your heartbeat.

poetry

Another Day at the Masquerade

By Amy Thomson

The closet of masks
sparkles with gleaming teeth,
beneath empty eyes,
hollow lies
lie lurking.
Always working
the perfect angle,
trust is mangled
and coated
with sugar bloated,
empty words
that fill your ears,
crawl into your brain,
center of disdain,
dissolve.
Conversation involves
crafting your smile,
spitting saccharin lullabies
from your gleaming teeth
catch your reflection,
caught the infection,
staring back at two, hollow eyes.

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1:52PM 11/28/2017

By Amy Thomson

 

Overestimated,
intimidated,
feels like I’ve waited
forever for peace.
Fields of contentment
plagued with resentment.
Self-doubt creeps
as bravery weeps.
Tear soaked fears
soak the straightjacket
I’ve sewn for myself.
Opportunity’s path,
lined with wrath,
has a good laugh
when I reach a dead end.
Now willing to bend,
apologies I send,
friendships I mend,
my fields I tend.
I dust off my knees,
cut through the trees,
form my own road
before I implode.

poetry

Field Tending

By Amy Thomson

 

Construction booms
shake the rooms,
rattling, rumbling, reverberating,
perforating the hour.
Deliberating the ultimate power:
Time,
how to slice it just right,
keeping future in sight.
Still learning from the past,
too late to cast
necessary wisdom,
intoxicating system
breeding bees
to make cheese
a tight squeeze
in the schedule,
a sexy tease,
a little hair pull.
Clumps of hair drown the drain
the wicked pain
of lost dreams,
blown away with kites,
a bittersweet sight,
aspartame bite.
Can barely find time to breathe
without choking on guilt.
The Empire we’ve built
starts to wilt.
Time caresses valleys around
Mother’s eyes
regrets disguised
as her children’s tears dried,
refused rides,
became brides,
she tried
her best.
The red giant will still
set in the West,
even after we’ve gone,
The East will bear dawn.

poetry

Midnight Acid

By Amy Thomson

 

It’s hitting me

all at once,

energy

part of me,

part of it,

something more,

dancing off screen.

My poem is       d  a  n  c  i  n  g.

Inhale

can’t fail.

Intense.

No sense.

Senses on fire,

Perspire,

Waxahatchee lullabies

energize.

What a night,

who knew?

Now you do.

It’s strong,

so are you

you’ll be fine.

Give it time.

Pupils gleam,

two black pools,

tools to see the unseen,

psychedelic gene,

third eye clean.