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drown in it
Footsteps always echo loudest on a stage, facing a full and quiet crowd. Harrison always said eat a banana, run up the stairs; one to calm, one to rile the heart. The anxious organ can’t seem to tell between a workout and the icy choir of each step, smooth neck of the cello in my…
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making coffee
The early dawn brings with it a delight; Though my alarm clock blares with sharp distress I always find a certain happiness as I begin the morning’s groggy rite: First, to brew the precious grounds with light accents of cinnamon; the soft caress of cream comes next, then sugar’s subtle kiss. And as they coalesce,…
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resting in between
kettle whistles; hot air flies; the work week ends without applause. cashier waiting, fading smile; wallet sits at home awhile. ketchup stains, blotted mess; naked sigh in burped distress. rising sun, tender wind; your face in laughing grin. quiet moment, silent night to play and read and cook and write. stress and pressure are routine…
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an old friend
when you had a brother but not of flesh and blood then you lost them fully in the muck of anger’s mud those years of friendship feel like lessons on your brow sweat collecting on the edge; snow scattered from a bough. there is no future present where we could fully speak the work it’d…
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charm necklace
charm necklace: single golden eagle first discovered at age six my father wore them religiously. the eagle his loyal oath: one partner one love beholden. cluttered, drawer; chain coiled tight; charms clump: crosses, bikes – his interests, passions all clamor gently) one day: empty drawer. golden eagle alone on lifeless chain. charms lost. house sold.…
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goblin
I am a cheeky goblin I like the shiny things Give me rocks that go “click clock” and roll my numbers clean I have a bag of shiny math with numbers printed fine on sides aplenty (4 to 20) with colorful designs. They’re piled high, but organized: my bag has different sections! the reds or…
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hope
if I could write the sunshine so bright the blind could see if I could write a dinner you’d eat with rabid glee; if I could write a dance step that’d get your feet to tap whose hurried lines would be sublime and end in choral claps; if I could write the chains that bind…
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Migration of Butterflies
I have heard when butterflies migrate, it is their children, several generations later, endowed with the great train of memories of those that came before, who died learned, added their own thread, weaving a continuous pattern, impossibly complex – each unaware of the destination, but keen on the route – an instinctual purpose passed down…
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duck weather
this rainy, cloudy weather sucks…
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Current
love, deferred; stone, dropped from a bridge at night. splash, heard ripples lost in the dark.
the story so far
poetry by daniel hurst
the story so far 