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.

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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.

 

poetry

Burnout

By Amy Thomson

Naive gasoline
soaks childhood dreams,
yearning mother’s beams
as I’m tearing at the seams.
A bright burst of light
quickly settles in the night
as I start feel the fright
that my life will not take flight.
Now, I never feel alright,
and her smile starts to wean,
cover pain,
try in vain,
just to gain
a mother’s love.
Disappointed,
dreams disjointed,
once anointed,
now dethroned.
Pick up the phone,
hesitate,
heart debates,
can’t relate,
clear my plate.
Now she knows
I’m nothing great.
Drop my classes,
join the masses.
Burnt out star
reduced to char,
missed the bar,
now sub par.
Always was
just because
I was her dolly,
act of folly.
Sold acceptance
for identity,
lost serenity,
emotional amenity.
I crave that blanket,
despite suffocation,
incessant persuasion,
Amy erasure,
at least I could face her
eyes with pride,
should have tried,
pushed aside,
failed to abide.
Far from calm,
rejected psalm,
I dropped a bomb,
I’m sorry, mom.

poetry

A Well-Bred Bitch

By Amy Thomson

“Here, let me explain…”
the sweet mating call
echoes,
penetrates her
slowly steaming silence.
“Actually…”
intellectual peacock
feathers flare.
Eyebrows raise,
face feigns interest,
reacts with contrived courtesy.
The teapot screams on mute.
His facts are wrong.
This is my field.
How do his lungs hold so much breath?
A well-bred bitch
swallows opposition,
washed down with blood
from biting her tongue.
A well-bred bitch
digs valleys
with nothing but fingernails,
peels cuticles
like Thanksgiving yams.
A well-bred bitch
remembers to nod
as his drones cut
the bitter cocktail
of condescension.
A well-bred bitch
serves soft smiles for dinner,
not chilled facts from the fridge.
For a well-bred bitch
is aware of the fragile
china in front of her,
passed down through generations.
One wrong touch
and it shatters.
She prefers IKEA.

poetry

Apocalyptic Activism

Bones tired,
will expired,
now sour,
lack power,
lack movement.
Improvement
futile.
Political dial
broken off,
sent into space
without a trace.
Away with logic,
to hell with peace.
Our planet’s lease
ending,
evicted.
Science predicted
heat waves,
dance raves.
Hurricane,
litocane,
collagen,
glamour sin.
Lush lips,
stock dips,
Flint sips
a pathetic excuse.
Water,
getting hotter.
Women walking
museums.
We’re so dumb,
give us some
attention,
bad intention.
Cat fight,
a trite sight,
despite
our innocence.
Compete for jobs
not slobs.
Kiss The Man,
not a man.
Grab pussy,
you wussy.
Honey,
money Trumps
choices,
voices,
losing hope,
grab the rope.
Pray for end,
let Her send
a quick goodbye,
for this land, I’ll die
so She can sigh,
and wonder,
why?