You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘collage poem’ tag.

Wild Cactus

The windows were broken to eat you alive.
Slicked with ink and thin paper, my hands,
Under-appreciated, unhinged—even thrived
Despite the lackluster smidgen of damp sand.

I am at the beach, plump with rainwater from a
Cool foggy summer—the island, laughing
Staying true to its cold hardiness, a collage
In rescuing the wild form, a soft mossy green.

That said, a spiny devil records their catches:
A hummingbird, stones, monsoon storms, a queen
Flown, thrown and blown through cut paper latches
Burn off their spines, it’s not that damage-repair thing.

Poised to scream out lots of terrible bare-tree lines
Because he was suffering in private gardens,
Clad in welding gloves, a fish hook thought of a tongue
Like a sermon of my father’s, to dig up tender globes,

I re-imagined my artichoke romance, living proof
Their purple-blue thistle havens sugared and sold
Love along the edges of a slip-covered coast
Without shells or throw pillows or souvenirs.

The vivid art of dreaming pins a spooky piece
I kept trying to save Saturn or Uranus, giant houseplants,
Hoping for a robust shape-shifter to take in a dying sea,
A ball of recycled gyotaku doused with kerosene.


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The Wreck and the Abyss


I heard from an electric man,
Booming commands like winter,
His voice, as rare as thundersnow,
‘I want you,’ unashamed as scarlet sky
At sea; its clumsy clouds mirrored
My mauve heart, and a fanatical force,
To siphon the blood in his veins,
A velvety crescendo at hand
Caught in a misshapen idea of me.
When he commandeered a strange brig
Its sails and mast were splintered,
Twisted roots and blotting paper,
Fueled on Irish whisky and ginger beer,
Nevertheless, he stood sand-blasted
And triumphant; his brow, scowl-lined,
Unwatered and stung from listless wars
Fought (man versus himself, at times)
Far from familiar shores.

He was, as they say, a wreck.

Did he thirst for disaster?
I’ve got an uncanny way to know
(Reading the Tarot, albeit faster)
Defiant, I danced, slipping along
The icy luge-like drive, white-edged
Banks, marbled alabaster, plowed
And pocked by the dog and deer,
My snowshoe-paths, once
An orderly plan, now crashed
Indistinguishably bewildered
I romped through the woods,
Unharmed, unheard—


Still, I wanted a navigator.

I obeyed none before him,
Why fiddle with that? Yes,
My savage hair wilted
To curled reeds, foam-tipped
In the bath. I’m a private steamy
Abyss, dreaming boat slips
To make me over: a clear lake,
Or river, swimmable; navigable;
Instead I’m insatiable, bottom-less
With a merrow’s repeated apology,
“I must go;” and he supposed
A low hum, barely a lion’s
Fremitus, inaudible to a mere
Human-girl, (but I hear
Preternaturally well) might arouse
A subterranean mantelpiece,
Stoke the fires in my breast,
Nearly fatal to any man
Except him, I expect.

In our joined subconscious,
We pretend the stinging tang
Of salted roads that separate us
Creep deep into our throats, akin
To an astringent, a reliable remedy,
Rather than a kiss; it wants
To descend into the esophagus,
Not cling desperately
Begging uvulas, but to fall,
Digesting slowly
Into the gut.

It’s the one place we trust.



Poet. Artist. Ecoheroine. Human ecologist. Spiritual mermaid and Mystic. I write about literary ecology, wetlands, water, Romantic ecology, and quirky adventures with my dog.

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