In a world of shrivel and wilt
When what we need is seed and sprout
I am neither gather nor grow
I am wither and rot
TDM
Tag: lifestyle
Lying on a Rock
I disengaged myself
And let every tender vertebra
Feel as pious as
The stone
They were held upon
And reaching overhead
In my supinated situation
I gasped
And let my hands fall to
The pate of the rock
Connecting them like
A halo
Twisting my fingers
Around my own locks
Tangling them between the crown
On my head
Where the coolness of
The stone had met my skull
Supporting it
TDM
If I had a Son
If I had a son
I’d name him Jonah
And for the first time I’d be in
Love
With teetering tot
Melting into white cotton
Sheets twisted
around bits of
Twig and sand sprinkled
between the folds of socks
that have slid off of
tiny toes
That I could collect
without disturbing
my love
who
After a long day of
Travelling through backyards
And almost making it over
the swing set is
slow burning
grace
resting gentle
face
TDM
Word Vomit of the Imaginary Traveler
I have gone on many paper adventures, pages and pages of text have carried me up and up, far, far away. Daydreams and sleepy dreams have comforted my thoughts and set an imaginary trail behind me. Footsteps through cobblestone pathways, sipping dark coffee, following lamppost moons. Then tracking through snowy banks, heavy feet and runny nose, breathing in crisp frost, windy tears wiping away snowflakes that land on cheeks. Sun baked faces turning red as gazes are lifted, trailing the side of ancient monument and sand castle. Silk or linen draped across wandering eyes, highlighted colours amongst sepia and terra cotta. Crickets keeping souls awake in the night, a reminder to feed the fire to keep the warmth from escaping the tent, so that catching fireflies is a little bit more interesting. Though harder to see them in flame light, it is better for roasting marshmallows. Stopping by a stream to sip or splash water in the cracking faces and worn boots. Stopping by the side and peeling off jackets to rest heads on, stones to prop tired feet upon. And finally listening to ocean swells with active ears and quiet faces, being sprayed with salty mist. Then to squish toes in the sand when the water has not covered them, scraping a heal on a little shell, a tiny home built in repetitive beauty, swirling and twirling curves. The shell made of soft pinks and yellows, like the canvas stretching far beyond the rolling and bouncing waves, going going on until hidden by blues, lighter, then darker, then burst of silver overhead. Twinkle to preserve some light for walking home in, howls to bid goodnight.
TDM
Poetry and Prose by Teresa Di Matteo 