Tag Archives: abstract


once we were a melody

a slow string of harmonic words
abundant sentences
like flowers in spring

our syllables moved wind
to wheat

mathematically, forgiveness is
a top-heavy relationship

and in the sum of reduction
one becomes whole
while the other, a remainder

I have assumed the shape of water
of air

in a cloud
or a balloon

I must be poetry
I am fluid

the slow blue leak of
sky or sea or hope

I believe it’s a sign
maybe a malignancy
a cancer

heavy is this lifetime that
rains snow
each day colder than the last
but predictable
the way it falls with certainty
and purpose

and I feel compelled
to cut up the whiteness
like cocaine
and fill sinuses with misery
or all the color of pocket-stains

and then
yellow streamed through my window
slanted, sideways

but I am disabled

numb and broken-winged
before the open sun

lah  6.15.12 ©®



listen to quiet roots
a forest in my hair
the thin bones of thickets
& stars pulsing against
my skin
I’m becoming night


this might be yesterday, or tomorrow, the same
wind rustles corn, row on row, the same search
for faltering light, threaded loosely like ribbons of former clouds, like palsied wingbeats of my own breathing, mourning stands the lonely tree
By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.


black fades from its own fullness

extinguishes the nightlight
undressing trees from their
truest colors

stars are orphaned by
the wakening day
cloudbanks break for
a larger sun

notice as an aged fall flower
straightens her crooked spine
startles the grazing white-tailed deer
to run with the wildwater

it seems the air is colder here
just before the light
as if the warmth was somehow
left behind
a dozen years long

forgotten to the fields
like the secret language of butterflies
By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.

~understanding the ramifications of indiscretion

sometimes everything is missing
perhaps night is weak

always falling

even the moon slides away to
soft edges of darkness
in the cold awakening
another tired day scatters sunlight
on the susquehanna

old river, relaxed
against colloquial curves

a peculiar musky scent slips the water

a red-tailed hawk in flight
talons tear through the blue
sometimes anything is something
the soul is fashioned from
versed incantations
and dots of color
deeper than the self

a simile of purge and cleanse
like benediction after sin
an aging ash outgrows its roots
what was will cease to be
this slow demise of fading leaves
the consequences to the tree
sometimes something that’s everything
is nothing at all
By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.

~breaking bed

loosely strung silence
canopies the absence found in
a familiar room

observe the detail taken to stitch a bed
spread of uncertainty

measure the seam’s strength
when stretched more than a decade deep
the same distance found between
two bodies
the way it hems a hollowness heavier than
our own breathing

notice how the fabric frays
splits the darkening air

curses flung about like damp feathers
like disoriented shadows, framed

and lengthening the wall
By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.

~I’m obliged to tell you

by definition, she is the refrain

the old soul of a poet, reborn
and reborn again

as similes spread in her half-spent light
darker grows the deathless ink
By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.

~notes on writing parables

late july is familiar and two dozen months
have scurried on the way seasons do
changing as they stay the same

caught in this motionless moment
this pause of mourning
pinned between blue heavens
and blessed waking
still life lingers in summery light
like bits of quiet conversation
or a brief blossoming peony

a bird in flight

waiting to be captured and kept

held as memories that have not died but
become buried in graves of metaphors
to grow words from seedtime to harvest

but in this long blooming sentence
of grief

only verbs have adjusted to
the past tense
By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.

~slight measurements

my sky stayed blue the summer

after you died, like a lull of lakewater

still, the walnut stood strong

wise and throwing shade

only the wind has moved on

By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.


a peculiar voice still shakes me awake
like a living nightmare
nearly four hundred days from here
a 3am stranger says you were
driving with familiar ghosts
curled above the hot curve
spooning them in your waking sleep
you were flying, uncaged bird
wingspread and flying
dangerously, devilishly high
soaring that thirty seconds of
speeding across the tracks
until you fell again from
an intoxicated sky
as if an attempt to kill
your own demons
a rusted stake to the heart
and I can never write
the aching silence found
in a sunless morning
in a sterile room
the medicinal white stench
of stilled air
and you, hanging on
each startled tone, a reminder
that a cheated death was less than
a millimeter from this day
you were alive
but so far away
comatose, yet crying
I wipe the salt from the cracks
in swollen cheekbones

and like a rock song
you become one with the machines
pumping toxic venom from your
draining black milk from a vacant space
behind broken ribs
where breath no longer inhabits lungs
every inch of skin, a palette of pain
hues of hurt I never knew existed
and through the doorway comes the man
who uncrucified you
to tell me you are lost in the woods
with less than one percent chance
of ever being found
last rites were all that was left

By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.