poetry

Benjamin Nyle Wallman

By Amy Thomson

My Sunday morning
needs no warning,
no alarm,
pure charm
dances on your sleeping eyelids,
dusting your face
with a trace
of lust.
I must be your little spoon,
stir my Sunday coffee,
a little sugar
licks my lips.
Pull my hips
into your corner.
The world’s horror
dissolves
into eleven am.
Resolved by noon.
Framed by you,
my gemstone,
perfectly calm,
trace your palm,
give you powers.
“You got me flowers?”
Hit snooze,
I’ll lose
nothing
save for stolen glances.
What are the chances
I’ve found you?

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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

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.