poetry

Mr. Sky

By Amy Thomson

Awake from his dreams,

Mr. Sky screams.

He’s never felt so alone.

Pouring buckets of tears

And electric sears,

Belting a thunderous moan.

“I miss her,” he cries,

“She’s left me” he sighs.

When will Mr. Sky learn?

She’s out for the day,

She’s gone far away,

He begs Miss Sun to return.

 

poetry

Three Pound Brain

By Amy Thomson 

Three pounds,
the weight of the human brain.
Those last damn pounds
I can never

shed.

Ship my three pound brain
in a time machine to Darwin in Tahiti
“The Origins of the Bulimics.”
Scientists claim

your

brain is a stiff, three pound cocktail,
chemicals swimming about
in grey goo,
creating a conscious byproduct.

Ideas

vary between brains,
for hippies, yogis,
pastors and rabbis believe you have
a three pound soul.

Of

all the arguments,
the mind-body complex
divides humans in mass
and individuals in half.

What

caused this battle
between my body and mind?
Healthy diets of television
pouring bodies of

beauty

into my three pound brain.
My eyes windows of judgement,
my body a betrayal.
Hopeless vanity.

Is

the reason women are compared to fruit
due to our bright beauty?
I longed to be a luscious peach
to hold men’s gazes

and

make mouths water.
I am no peach, though,
Merely
a dirty vegetable.

Love

my fertilizer,
my roots run deep.
Not meant for display on the countertop,
but to nourish, maintain, and sustain. Trust

yourself,

for the various cultural standards,
the heads armed with critical eyes,
and the mouths that shout from cars,
now mean nothing in my three pound brain.

poetry

It’s Just A Drill

By Amy Thomson 

Heart pounds my chest wall,
like a prisoner locked inside
a burning building.

Hands pour buckets of
cold, clammy sweat, drenches my
fear in gasoline.

Fear grips my stomach
squeezing out my fortitude.
Smoke clouds my vision.

I know this will pass,
but my lack of oxygen
wipes my memory clean.

Fire licks my bones,
relishing my anxious blood.
I admit defeat.

Flames fade to embers,
my remnants beam bright cerise,
I stand derelict.

It is only him
that can subdue my panic,
suffocate the blaze.

For he is warm socks
after trudging through the snow,
the first sip of tea.

He is a cool breeze
in a blistering summer
caressing my cheek.

He is the scent of
a charming, used bookstore mixed
with morning coffee.

That relief that comes
with sleeping in on Sunday,
no obligations.

With him, I know I
can rebuild my charred remains,
my fear non-lethal.