Category: poetry

They rise from earth and flame: clay fired into witness,three figures planted on the plaza like a question.One spits syllables—short, bright as flint—“Remember the border,” it says, “remember the lists.”The second counts each answer, folds it into its mouth,“Measure the rent, count the votes, soften the edge,” it counsels.The third hunches, palms pressed to its … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Discussions #2, v.2

In the dim gallery a single bulb walks the floor.Three sculptures lean together, elbows of stone touching,a private parliament on a shared plinth. Bronze clears its throat — a small metallic scrape —and speaks first, hands like oars pointing outward:“Borders are wounds,” it says. “We stitch them with paperand call the stitch a treaty. It … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “Statue Gallery Negotiations” – Discussion #1, v.4

Three statues lean into a private parliament of stone.A single bulb makes slow decisions across their knees;bronze knuckles etch coastlines into the gallery's base,marble eyes hold the names they dare not say aloud.They quarrel with the language of the body —a cracked thumb points east, a jaw tightens like a border,a fractured nose becomes the … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “Silent Council” – Discussion #1, v.3

In the dim gallery a hush leans close.Three sculptures arc into a conspiratorial semicircle —a bronze hand scratches a map across the plinth,marble brows furrow where battles once were scored.They do not speak; they point with chipped fingers,name cities like lit matches and toss them down.One bears a child's palm impressed into its flank —a … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “Plinth Politics” – Discussion #1, v.2

Her thought is a coin of light flipping in the air;I see it tumble and settle on the curve of her face.She sits—knee scabbed, thumb inked with blue—and the ordinary becomes a small cathedral. In that quiet the child returns:a comet of laughter, a paper boat on the kitchen sink,eyes like glass where new mornings … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “Coin of Light” – Inner Contemplation, v.3

Outside the hush behind my eyes,I catch her paused, a small held breath—a bright mote of thought rising, tentative. Then the child appears: candid, careless,chin freckled, hands still bearing clay,a photograph taken in the bright of ordinary. My chest floods with a love that wants to hold her—not to bind but to shelter: hands cupped … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “Holding This Moment” – Inner Contemplation, v.2

Note: Imagine Tom Waits commenting on the photoshoot... They roll the lights in like rolling thunder — a couple of cheap halos and a broomstick moon.The director, he’s wearing a shabby fedora full of old applause, squints through the viewfinder like a man checking the bottom of his glass.Those little white flowers — holy little … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “Close-Up on a Broomstick Moon” – Ready for my close-up, Mr. Deville, v.4

They arrive in white, tiny and relentless,little actresses in a noir of green and shadow.The lens inhales them; a hush spreads like powder.Petals fan themselves, breath silk, and murmur—not sirens, but lullabies of hush and light—inviting a fingertip that will never quite arrive.Close: a pollen comet, a vein that writes a map,a throat of silk … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “Tiny Divas of the Silver Screen” – Ready for my close-up, Mr. Deville, v.3

In the lens they rehearse: tiny white divasframed in halogen and shallow focus.Leaves fall to black; bokeh eats the background.Each petal takes its cue, a practiced tilt,each stamen a pin-light on a tiny stage.They lean toward the aperture and hold —silk that almost asks to be touched.Up close, veins become cartography,pollen like dropped sequins on … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – “Petite Divas” – Ready for my close-up, Mr. Deville, v.2

I knead until the room thins — the lamp a small moon,my breath and the wheel keeping secret time.Hands learn the clay’s grammar: press, fold, pull —a slow conversation that erases the name of the day. I am neither in nor out; I live in the seam,the narrow seam where thinking loosens its teeth.My fingers … Continue reading Revisionist Poetry – Becoming Liminal – Clay Experiments, v.4