I saw your face through the frame of a dream I put it together from memory, like a snowman: The eyes, nose, smile I said I love you and looked back for a reaction, To see if it was real… Read More ›
Poetry
Poet modeling: notes from the dentist’s waiting room
I walk the city in the morning as it’s waking up: shop owners sweeping the sidewalks after the storm, lights coming on in the apartment windows, a million lives to live in the red brick buildings overlooking the city, due… Read More ›
Shadow imprint of a soul: what’s timeless
Souls make snow-angels in the dog bed, where Ginger curls up by the fire. And after she’s gone, the mind still sees after-images of her there and has to check itself, for time: For what time we’re in, now? How it… Read More ›
Song for madness, ode to moon
The halo around the moon is the son of madness who follows a cold light who sits inside shadows haunted by sounds — a footstep, a figure, a face… who’s fallen for his own reflection, has nothing but himself and… Read More ›
Song for autumn
A piece of fuzz in the air, a seed-bloom, a soul, will-o’-the-wisp leading me to uplit trees, quiet hillsides, hidden peaks. A voice, a dream, a memory, the sunset in autumn and softening light: Who can pretend the angle doesn’t affect… Read More ›
Gray on Brown
The colors mirror my insides this time of year, the muted tones and dampened smiles The earth settling in, parts of it fallen to repose in piles and patterns, Wisps of wood fire smoke: the crackle in the leaves, the… Read More ›
Seeds spin like helicopters
We’re like seeds in the sky, how we start in the distance and might be a bat, a sparrow, a dragonfly, a seed We start from one corner and slip to the side, come back into focus, carry on a… Read More ›
Collector of small things
The poet is a collector of small things who says Here, and holds out her hand with something found on a walk. It’s a leaf that could be a flame it’s so red, or a piece of wood that looks… Read More ›
Beach became sky
This morning the sky’s gutted and fanned out like the beach, the clouds ocean foam, the stars peaking out through the sand, surprised to find themselves with the left-behind junk of man and the creatures and the saltwater pods stirring… Read More ›
What’s worse than the crooked verse
The earth leans into the sun like a chicken on a rotisserie, like a pig on a spit. Most of what I think or write I keep to myself, which is probably best. I thought that up on my morning… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 