poetry

Dancerian Mania

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.

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poetry

quiet spaces

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.

 

 

poetry

Mousetrap

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.

 

poetry

Lebensmüde

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.”