Same

I cannot help but to notice her pretending, my mind examining each feigned word like fingers lingering over hard-pressed indents left behind on parchment.
It seems mercilessly exhausting.

She pretends because that is what she has always done to get by.
Getting by has meant ignoring nearly every gut feeling she has ever had, and even when she did listen, it was only after enduring for far too long.
The gut feelings were always the real her, screaming to be heard.

I watch her disguised expressions as she speaks and all I can think is:
Did you mistake complacency for freedom?
Did you harden your heart to what loved you most?
Did you allow yourself true joy in anything?

Am I doing the same thing?

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Autopsies

my poems are all autopsies,
but rarely postmortem,
every pen scratch the slow strangling of some fragment begging for mercy,
while a new fraction is agonizingly birthed in its place,
innocently awaiting its white-gloved examination

Delicate

what do we allow to lie, hiding,
in the margins of our silence?
in the sinking absence of all impetus?

autumn leaves change not by choice,
but by necessity,
a silent, inevitable reaction to all time passed,
to all interaction that came before,
an inherent response to the wholeness of their surroundings,
to their experience of living

first, it is a slow loss,
almost imperceivable,
then a maelstrom of many stimuli at once,
eventually becoming the catalyst to something so beautiful and transforming,
it feels extraordinary,
because it is

then, there is a necessary letting go,
a freeing and frightening fall whose landing transforms into something fertile,
something that slowly,
not painlessly,
decomposes to feed their own roots,
to prepare them for days to come

what do autumn leaves know that we do not?
what lies in the margins of our silence,
in the delicacy of our awe?

Imposter

this shaky pencil scratches and claws at the persuasive paper,
a brittle, broken bird wing lifting and slapping itself against the emptiness,
line after desperately vacant line staring back, mockingly,
and I am stranded,
stuck at the end of the poor man’s queue

this lizard brain is powerless as it goes through the habitual motion of attempting to regurgitate something,
to manufacture anything,
for god’s sake

something like words make it to the page in jagged slices of shale,
crumbling at the weight of every second glance,
until finally peeling back their imposter costumes,
only to reveal soot covered vacant lines

what can I expect when,
instead of lead,
it’s only dust?

-image via Pixabay

Dust

I am so honored to be one of ten finalists for the 2018 Bermuda Triangle Prize sponsored by The Poet’s Billow. I am humbled to be in such talented and gifted company.

If you’d like to read my poem, you can do so here by scrolling down a bit to Angela Kay, Dust. All ten finalists are available for reading via the link. If you’d like to read the three winning poems you can do so here.

Thank you!

Masses

I won’t speak to the masses
or bleed lyrical to please
this ain’t about fame
or coins jinglin’ to my knees

I won’t speak to the masses
or go beggin’ for ears
I ain’t tryin’ to be a cool kid
cliquin’ in, sippin’ beers

I won’t speak to the masses
I’ll use my voice when my spirit moves
it’ll find the ones it’s s’posed to
it’ll dance to its own grooves

-image via Pinterest, original source unknown

Chiaroscuro

Good morning!

Today, Chiaroscuro, Darkness and Light, is available for purchase, the dVerse Poet Pub’s anthology of poets. Included are two poems I’ve written, and I’m in amazing company. I’m in awe of the talent that fills this book! It’s available on Amazon UK and Amazon US if you’d like to check it out.