Compilation Poem for July 2, 2015

There was one rule in my past – don’t touch the mic

How do I capture this poetic moment
before the grass is sticky with fallen fruit
and the cupboard is left full of apple raspberry juice?
My bones shake like it’s the middle of December.
Zip up the green cape coat
across the existence of my earliest skin,
my feet naked in canvas shoes
against the dirt straw and twigs,
soaking into the wet grass, sound
waves rippling the air like water.

I can live in my own insanity.
You’d be surprised how many personalities I have.
It’s like a drinking game where everyone
is doing shots of adrenaline
and everybody tells us how fabulous we look.
I forget about tomorrow
and how it accused me of guessing wrong.
I keep writing over everything,
continuous as the stars that shine,
made from the sun, like Orion’s belt
hung on the west canyon rim,
like three diamonds, I thrive
with all those stars so strewn upon the road.
I emptied my pockets and gave
what was in them to a homeless man.

Compiled by Trish Hopkinson