By Amy Thomson
Cells buzz like sky wires,
she keeps dancing, never tires.
Through grey rain, her feet turn blue,
smile stained, nothing new.
She dances through the city streets,
kissing everyone she meets.
Twirling down the interstate,
swirling home, it’s getting late.
Finally, her feet meet sand,
ocean gateway to homeland.
Her battered feet begin to heal,
delicious moment’s peace she steals.
She pirouettes into the waves,
home at last, she is saved.
By Amy Thomson
Souls bound,
found pieces of my own
thrown under friend’s car seats,
dropped in side-streets,
wrapped in bedsheets
askew.
Places
like spaces between words
in loyal paperbacks,
in sidewalk cracks,
baggage unpacked,
I’m new.
Spotted
blue dotted between leaves,
ancient thread in Earth’s sleeves
weaves me to you,
a deja vu
soul glue.
Restored
by the cord that fastens
wild Pines to Aspens,
magic happens
in hazel pools
of two.
By Amy Thomson
First impression,
confession: smitten,
fangs bit in,
venom dopamine,
first serene,
then you got mean,
razor tongue cut my folly so quick,
you’re sick,
trick your prey
to come play,
I pray
you recover,
discover that
you’re prettier smiling.
Filing moments
before we were opponents,
components of misery simple.
Into your mousetrap,
bones snap,
heart slap,
they’ll lap
your lies.
By Amy Thomson
Did you know that’s my name?
Eternal burning flame
motivating,
sometimes draining,
mostly adorable,
though potty jokes horrible,
I’m so glad you yike me,
let’s play family.
By Amy Thomson
Hello Miss Iris,
so pretty and stylish.
Forever inspired
by your golden fire.
Sunshine rays
cut through haze.
I forget my sadness,
fill my cup with
G L A D N E S S.
By Amy Thomson
Three-twenty-two am,
memories stem from dusty corners
long forgotten,
gone rotten,
like fruit left in sixth grade lockers,
she walks her skinny legs
home.
Porcelain bowl
full of that night’s dinner,
getting thinner,
she’s the winner
and the sinner.
Years of tears,
then high school years
of Pepsi for lunch,
tomato to munch,
stomach to crunch,
walls to punch.
“Where’s your food?” he asks.
Her mask taut,
“I forgot.”
By Amy Thomson
Trotting mules fuel bile
while
counterfeit grins
spin
threads in my head.
Laugh at me,
I laugh on.
Come dawn,
grin wins,
charged with cheer
despite leers I sear,
whispers near
from vacuous lips more idle than
sneakers missing soles,
sneaking sideways glances into
missing souls,
I laugh on.
Emotional brawn
wrapped in eggshell,
dwelling in Plath’s bell jar,
heart tarred,
not gone,
I laugh on.
