O Write: Marilynonaroll's Blog
A North Star. A tuning fork. A thermometer
I should not exclude myself from this
candy bars from the bus station and a swingset
weave a shirt from nettles
Against the cold spurs in the sky
It may be that when we no longer know what to do
Always With the Questions!?!?
Fall’s arrowheads
Untitled
stalking like a shadow among the garbage cans
In the fetid wombs of black air under pines in summer.
in layers, since layers,
to my one life, when I will finally be wordless. What
if I should just calm down about that. I really hope I’m doing this right.
And I lay quietly on the drawn knees of the mountain
strong, but anxious and discontented amid all that messy beauty
& time works it out
particles, pollen, all the dirt of the world
For Memorial Day, reblogging this Stern poem
into empty sky
text of earth, ocean, and breath. Let me, too, inhabit
there must be a door — a door
My hybrid piece on Heavy Feather Review
with snot and ice cream
Removed from my usual self, just footsteps
the savant who believes mustard stains
a slippery thing lugging a roof on my back
Pause for station identification
like silver dollars dropped in the deep end
When the wren wakes I’ll ask
Still, I listen. I search
I listen for fraught accords between soil and stalks
the fate of the cruel & unusual
or maybe things were not communicated clearly.
Tell me, train-sound
der Nebelgang
Always With the Questions!: One Poet’s Writing Manual
Und Leiber stiegen auf / ein Tausendklagen /
the methodology of giving up
and stops the smock and linger of pond racket
Toshi doshi ya
I threw my voice
I eat the many possibilities
Sneak Peek from Always With the Questions!: One Poet’s Writing Manual
the eloquent purple, those heart shaped leaves
the future I’m reaching for
to hide the sound of the groaning enormity
be visited by a dream of the world as kind
Excerpt from my new book: Always With the Questions!: One Poet’s Writing Manual
like a genie bottle waiting for miracles
Two Poems up on Plant-Human Quarterly
I stay up late listening
What flight of legs is always a thing falling?
most exalted fixture, an angel
mass of heat, but without flame. All these years
morning, lies as if
everything breaks
through a sieve quick & gone—
shifting uneasily under
I am working on drying up the rain that puddles in my subconscious. I am working on sleeping
teasing out a future that wouldn’t be
and when you look back
When you turn around, starting here, lift this
past: spores, gills, fins. No roots or leaves. Then birds cloud the skies, giant animals
pressure change and distant noise