Published in Scribe

·Pinned

The Needle and the Thread

Poetry Stitched — It matters not if the sky is perforated with drops of rain, or radiant, golden beads of sunlight, I wake each day to breathe the ruptured air and climb onto my toes to reach new elevations. I am like the needle pulling thread, the thread that mends, the soul that heals, the heart that needs stitching since it’s been broken now and again, my thoughts torn and unraveled, hoping that happiness will come along or that I will stumble my way through the downward drops and messy puddles, to play joyfully in the rain, wondering if I am the needle, the thread, or the unwoven fabric.

Poetry

1 min read

The Needle and the Thread

Poetry Stitched

It matters not if the sky is perforated with drops of rain,
or radiant, golden beads of sunlight,
I wake each day to breathe the ruptured air
and climb onto my toes to reach new elevations.

I am like the needle pulling thread,
the thread that mends,
the soul that heals,
the heart that needs stitching
since it’s been broken now and again,
my thoughts torn and unraveled,
hoping that happiness will come along
or that I will stumble my way
through the downward drops
and messy puddles,
to play joyfully in the rain,
wondering if I am the needle,
the thread,
or the unwoven fabric.

Published in The Lark

·Pinned

Hijacked Dreams

by Lost Poetry — Know thy enemy or be forever lost in hidden echo chambers and flaming arrows of mirrors blurred. Two hundred and six bones in the human body, four chambers of the heart, but how many billions of neurons blast around the brain driving you to the brink of epiphany? Hold on to your dreams let them not perish or be hijacked by those who think they know what is best for you. You have only yourself and a million stars to paint the scaffolded sky.

Poetry

1 min read

Hijacked Dreams

by Lost Poetry

Know thy enemy or be forever lost
in hidden echo chambers
and flaming arrows of mirrors blurred.

Two hundred and six bones in the human body,
four chambers of the heart,
but how many billions of neurons blast around the brain
driving you to the brink of epiphany?

Hold on to your dreams
let them not perish
or be hijacked by those who think
they know what is best for you.
You have only yourself and a million stars to paint the scaffolded sky.

Published in The Lark

·Pinned

The Irresistible Magic of the Night

Poetry that will bend your heart — The Lark poetry competition — There is something mystical about the tenuous night, something fragile and soothing, mysterious and dangerous, but even if I stretch the velvet sky and touch the tethered stars I will never feel anything like the boundless love you pull from me. It makes me feel alive. If I reach for…

Poetry

2 min read

Published in Loose Words

·Pinned

Unmerciful Drought

Poetry embracing words — I am like a house with no door. A lock with no key. A page with no words. Summer came uninvited leaving little time to find the shade. With me living in my shattered glass abode, feeling parched and withered, wordless, like the drought that dries out the soil and shrivels each…

Poetry

1 min read

Published in Lifeline

·Pinned

Ash is Ash

poetry that haunts the soul — Through a needle’s eye, kingdoms come and kingdoms go, the palate cleansed, when word is word and ash is ash, the skeletons thrown thoughtlessly into the trash, and we wear our sin like a proud badge waiting for the gallows. Life is a revision, told in sheer derision, by fools who hobble through labyrinths designed by delusions of the mind that we suffer for our art, brick by brick, stick by stick, we plunder words to make them fit a universe so scarred and shattered that we try our best to understand until the walls come tumbling down.

Poetry

1 min read

Ash is Ash

poetry that haunts the soul

Through a needle’s eye, kingdoms come
and kingdoms go, the palate cleansed,
when word is word and ash is ash,
the skeletons thrown thoughtlessly into the trash,
and we wear our sin like a proud badge
waiting for the gallows.

Life is a revision, told in sheer derision,
by fools who hobble through labyrinths
designed by delusions of the mind
that we suffer for our art, brick by brick,
stick by stick, we plunder words to make them fit
a universe so scarred and shattered that we try our best to understand
until the walls come tumbling down.

Thank you to Lifeline publication and to editor Sahil Patel for a place of wonder to read and write. The world needs an oasis for the soul, and I feel I have found one here.

Published in Scuzzbucket

·Aug 9

Soot and Honey

Poetry for the soul — There is nothing as sensual as a torrid summer’s day. There is nothing as sublime. too hot for rouge and lipstick — too hot to even think — my eyeballs soaked in steaming sweat — through summer’s scorch and stink. just seeking an oasis in the desert — razor blade…

Poetry

2 min read

Published in The Lark

·Aug 8

Paper Chains

Poetry and night dreams — Poetic is the night but I lie in paper chains unable to break the powerful hold. I’m tumble-dried and far from perfect unlike the wildest moon that’s rising lost in the shadows tumbling to the ground rolling in the ashes where even the deceptive truth is capable of lying and I can no longer trust…

Poetry

1 min read

Published in Purple Ink

·Aug 6

Stopping by Bethel Woods

memories of yesterday still live on — I was not there for the original Woodstock music fair nor have I been to Coachella, but I’ve been friends with Deadheads and Pearl Jammers and RedHotChiliPeppers. One thing is certain throughout the land, music and history go hand in hand. © Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved. grace notes…

This Happened To Me

2 min read

Published in Scuzzbucket

·Aug 5

Moon Dust

Poetry that bites — In the end, we are nothing but moon dust swiping left, swiping right and if we remember the footsteps leading us back home we still stumble in the doorway losing consciousness after midnight. We were fools to leave what was comfortable screw the talisman that robbed us of our innocence like the grime trapped beneath polished nails that pin us to the floorboards invoking our rights and revoking our wrongs.

Poetry

1 min read

Moon Dust

Poetry that bites

Photo by Marc Clinton Labiano on Unsplash

In the end, we are nothing but moon dust
swiping left, swiping right
and if we remember the footsteps leading us back home
we still stumble in the doorway
losing consciousness after midnight.

We were fools to leave what was comfortable
screw the talisman that robbed us of our innocence
like the grime trapped beneath polished nails
that pin us to the floorboards
invoking our rights and revoking our wrongs.

And if your lips speak discourse dripping from the tongue
I will gladly spend the rest of eternity
lost in your tainted remnants of microwaved truth
and my perceptions of the gravitational pull of our ill-begotten stars.

Published in Purple Ink

·Aug 4

It’s Time to Renew my Medium Membership

But I’m wondering if it’s worth it — I got an email from Medium, telling me it’s time to renew my membership. I cannot believe a year has passed already. But is it worth it? Maybe I need a break. Or maybe I’m feeling this way because the readership on Medium is just not the same as it…

Membership

2 min read