All tagged The Invisible Truth
The gift of childhood is imagination. In Sarah Frances Moran's poem, "Still Alive and Well" love and forgiveness are found in a friendship that withstand the challenges of life.
"Inside my body rests this adventurer.
I know it was birthed by you. The way fresh air
fills your lungs and how a campfire and a cold beer
can be like heaven.
Riding bikes down bayou banks
and tiptoe walking across railroad bridges.
We are wanderers. Romantic gypsies just a little
misunderstood."
We caught her
100 Acres from the Woods
wearing white, a cotton dress
with porridge stains, raisins
and honey on her breath,
goose feathers almost disguised
by her long golden locks.
We writers are the truth, confessional booths
—part passenger, part messenger,
part realist. As we must be.
Dark hair swoops
up in a crown, she is a statue, studying
the world on the other side of the glass
gleaming as if polished by hundreds of hands.
Up, clutching the sky, we are
brittle. This explosion leaves a lingering shush
from the triggered weapon. We’re forced down.
Houses the color of children's thoughts hide
a brittle explosion and leaves. Hush, a hush lingers.
They gather on pavements where payments are lost and won
They shout at deaf people and smile at the blind - the bad kind of good people
Good for nothing but relied on for everything
Cold, sharp metal - warm, worn leather,
her fingertips dance the gauntlet
of his studded shoulder.
Dishonesty is always drawn
helplessly to the truth
serum.
Trowelled furrows in the damp bed of mixed
compost and soil open rows to seeds
spaced inch by inch with the precision
of bare finger pinches.
There
will be no doubt, this kisser
is all ladies man.
