Tag Archives: brevity


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.

~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.

~pea soup

late september settles, salt-white

ghostly canopies, born of sky
blur in the periphery like muffled lake notes
folding underwater;  the air, too thin

the listening rain knows

lah  7.7.15

~notes on winemaking

    tilt your head, small bird
listen to the coming rain moisten
the tree as she
lifts her leaves to flirt with

observe the way her slight limbs
the delicate shape of her boughs
arcing against the plum skin of a
thundering sky
until plump clouds burst
blackberries to wine

tilt your head, small bird
as she flowers like dogwood

lah  7.9.15


just beyond summer is
like old love and lightning

how many months to remember?
how many whispers?
warm pinks and spread wings

the way she bends the sun’s distance
between a tender curl
of leaf-sprout
and a brief flowering

his touch, as quiet as nightfall

soft ground on the cusp
of evening
an indecent, unblanketing wind

the dimming ache

her hips
belonging to the shape
of moonlight

lah  7.7.15

~casualties of lake effect



it’s a common despair

inertia of a numb decision
and how aggressively it spreads
like january sniffles
or sprawling wind

trees gesture in their standing
orphaned by the green
blanketed with ghostsmoke

leaf fall comes shivering
the underneath goes still  


©  lori hamilton





three times this morning

I’ve stumbled


argued with the barometer

about the changing pressure of

some dogs are chasing snowflakes
oblivious to a cold january

they don’t notice me
as another sunday slips away
and I watch this thinning

its slow unraveling



©  lori hamilton





blame a curving sky
or the estuary beneath
leavened paper arches

the way sinflowers carve away

and evergreens spill their
rosemary scent
to an ordinarily persuasive pale

a mossy monday reclines
tilts against the deadwood
writing the third color of

memories grow here, on the north-side

like a gospel of old bibles
and thoreau’s musky bones  


©  lori hamilton




it was almost too late
to cancel the punctuation
and drain the marrow

de-bone a disguised tongue
bittered by camphor and cloves

an unspoken apology settles
farther than deep, deeper than far

in this way daffodils choose to remember
a complicated spring

like the alliteration of a dying


©  lori hamilton