Life, Poetry, Writing

For Green Things

Why do you hate the rain?

Who told you it would always be sunny?

How do you sustain a life in extreme?

When will you learn, green things must be earned?

 

— Janine Serioux

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Life, Poetry, Writing

Cover

Some say small women can get away with wearing less.

Slim steel limbs and bud nipples on trim ribcages,

Skin fitted close like armor.

Their bodies hold a different revolt

That can be smuggled neatly in size 6 jeans.

They wage war in seed, planted within the walls of convention.

Then there are women like me

With thighs broad and lapping like riverbeds,

The body of a tree, branches bowed heavy with ripe fruit no matter the season.

How does one ready an orchard for battle?

How to shore up these shores?

What do you sheath this greenhouse in to prepare it for an onslaught?

— Janine Serioux

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Life, Love, Poetry

Tempest

On this rainy night
just the thought of you
has reduced the world to the dimension of my 12 x 12 room.
My continent and country, this unmade bed,
its missing sovereign, you.
I long to hear the sacrosanct rustle of your breath against my pillowcase;
to touch the sleeping stubbled cheek…
But, I am alone.
Little stars of raindrops fill my windowpane.
The universe, though marred by our inevitable cleaving, persists,
and so must I.

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Life, Poetry, Writing

Winter Baby (incomplete)

I’ve always been glad that I was born in November,

that the bleak landscape of winter was the first one I saw.

At birth I found beauty in the desolate and whimsy in the cold.

Then slowly, gradually, the world changed

and all the frozen edges reformed to gentle crests of green,

layers shed and the world surged around me

vivid and lush

with blossoms as pink as my cheeks

overturned earth like my dark brown eyes.

And everywhere union,

everywhere nature’s infants meeting the sun for the first time.

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Life, Love, Poetry

BBG

The tiniest sliver of heaven
Is full of yellowing grass and the rustle of dying leaves.
The soft murmur of strolling couples and siren shrieks from the dirty urban soundscape beyond the trees.
And there’s me, alone on a bench below a placid blue sky
Shaded from the gentle sun by foliage clinging stubbornly to their branches
With a mind full to the brim of you.

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