Tag: DMpitchford
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Toybox
My mind is a wrecked toy I don’t know where to go with that Trembling hands cupped around it We rock forth and back Singing and sighing Wordless admonitions Begging reparations From parents absent as the gods davidmpitchford 12/16/2025
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Song for Her Majesty the Ex
We were legendary, dear, doubt it never King and queen of fourteen-liners and verse Time moves on, yet in the reflection of that moment Printed in books with our names . . . we were great How was it we lost admiration for each other? Competition? No. Complication. Life Got in our way of living.…
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Reading Joy
How sad it is that half a century I have walked briskly with impatience past my own story. . . Where I have no loathing for it, I find mostly passive contempt. Failure. Loveless hubris overriding whatever achievement felt too little to mark, insubstantial like my self as during each beating my mother and step…
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But is it a Poem?
Do they call it a poem? It’s a poem. Does it look like a poem? It’s a poem. Read it. Relish it. Savor it in your mouth Savor it in your ear and in your heart. Does it feel like something real? More than Real? Does it drug you with its puissance? If you cried…
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Imposter Syndrome
Send me flowers of reciprocity But gentle make them as a vernal breeze It is not for lack of will but skill That I return not your letters, dear friend I lament my own paucity herein But believe me please, when I decree How highly I value your amity, friendship And wonder always, how you…
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Flying into Things
started the morning in a dream of bliss, flying with the freedom of a juvenile redtail cutting through the air so smoothly kites envied me and the jays taught their fledglings to mimic every move as I danced through four dimensions despite these weird societal chains that tether mediocrity and the million lies that swarm…
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Deep Dark: a Walk Among the Ghosts
Moonless night. Perhaps New Moon?I hold no calendar to confirm.Out without my smartphone, disconnectedto a reason, thank you.Clover and wild onion spongysoftbeneath my steel-toed work shoes —after shift in the deep night, shallow morning.Only the sounds of distant traffic:a train a mile away sounds of electric whale;a bustle in a hedgerow ten meters north.Last thing…
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An Altar for Julianne
we have no candlesneither an altar in our homeour sacred spaces all lie withinnot so much by choiceas by accidental embarrassmentof riches – a house too fullof banality to house the holy . . . yet how many hours we sendprayers into our hearts, upunto the heavens, out tomanifest the universe . . . tonight,…
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#86: Lost in the Stacks
surrounded by thirty-eight volumes of poetrydiverse as the centuries of art historyI prime my mind, heart, fingers, tonguefor this final lap around the verse-arenaBorges, Natalie Goldberg, and Leonard Cohencheer me on in echoes from beyond;Samuel Taylor Coleridge has broughthis ministry of frost, sailing a Dover thrift edition;Kit Stokes helps me navigate broken musicwhile my fingers…
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New Year
Prophet of Midnighthe was torn asunderat the Solstice, dismembered and disemboweledby seven sisters dancing to Orpheusand the Muses – then sewn back togetherby one-hundred paradisal virginsdawn of that next day . . . but the parts – more than one sacrificewas disarticulated on the altar of their ire –his left arm black, rightmongoloid; left leg…
Fringemonkey Scribbles 