poetry

Good Mourning

By Amy Thomson

Let us mourn the day
the Willows laid down,
down into the ground
to build the new town.

We built on their heads,
our hands are stained red,
now that they’re all dead,
we’re filling with dread.

The stream once crystal,
tranquil and blissful
now wan and wistful,
free-market’s pistol.

Our forests of steel,
shield everything real
our bubble we seal
in order to deal.

“The wolves have dwindled,”
we read on kindles,
“their homes we’ve swindled,”
“we packed their bindles.”

Let us mourn the day
our Mother will burn,
forever we yearn,
but never we learn.

 

 

poetry

Hill’s Quilt

By Amy Thomson

Gone mute,

words left in concrete,

scattered in cracks of sidewalks.

 

Car horns

replaced with robins’

melodies that dust the air.

 

Asphalt

replaced with soil

that resembles coffee grounds.

 

Trees reach

for the cyan sky,

like the steel buildings back home.

 

Shiver

as the sun kisses

every inch of eager skin.

 

Quiver

as the wind carries

the brook’s comforting babbles.

 

The hills

tucked under a quilt

of tartan chrysanthemums.

 

Much like

the ones that wilted

on our kitchen tabletop.

 

The thought

floats out of my ears,

joins the Kingfishers above.

 

poetry

Look At The Sky!

By Amy Thomson

Cumulus pillows

accumulate blue.

Form elephants and

ships and an escape

from the skyscrapers.

 

Cirrus feathers dust

the salmon ceiling,

glowing gold as they

sing goodnight to Sun

and welcome Miss Moon.

 

Actinoform bursts

of bright fireworks

form celebrations

for our green Mother,

and spill their smiles.

 

Nimbostratus eyes

cry tears that fill seas,

groaning and roaring

and begging and—Oh

please return to me!

 

Condensed sisters fight

and love and wander—

all oblivious

to the gaze of the

stardust specks below.

 

poetry

Nevada

By Amy Thomson

Cirrus elephants

dance in blue.

Green sprinkled toffee

melts down Nevada’s chest.

 

Night pulls off her

hot, sticky blanket,

Pours glittering, navy

syrup on top.

 

Outside the neon buzz,

the coyote’s lullaby

sings her to sleep,

somewhere softer.

 

Quiet dreams float

behind her heavy eyes.

A life of peace, weary from

the infected abscess on her leg.

 

Oozing tears of girls

stripped of innocence.

Gushing bile

of hungry mites.

 

Alcohol soaked,

her leg burns with

empty dreams and

wicked sneers.

 

Infection spreads,

clawing flesh

into flashy

human traps.

 

Shhh, sleep,

whispers Night.

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.