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Category Archives: short poems

Life is a cliff-hanger
some of us are the cliffs with clingy grievances hanging from our shoes and ankles
some of us refuse to let go of these people we feel sorry for
some of us are escape artists
built with strength and emotional power to pull ourselves up
and onto the cliff
not knowing there will be more cliffs
not knowing there will be more people and events to hold us down
like the string of a helium balloon tied to a chair or to a wrist
I am small and bound to burst
I am full and cannot flee my purpose

Britta B.

The pursuit
is the truth
My passion has clouded my clarity
with boisterous,
bulging cloud formations
Beautiful, passing, plump
Everything up to this point
directed me to a warm moment of panic
a painful relief
I have not been touched
with such tender assurance
than when I was
disappointed
The sweet prize was
disguised as a goal –
something to aim for
when the Truth was having
a barrel to look through
down
into

Britta B.

There’s just something about somebody
who just
shows up
unannounced, no calls
no signals

just appears

He just shows up
from around the corner

gives you that look
that you can’t look

away from

Britta B.

one hazy morning
i awoke
to a glass of mystery and a splash of some fresh sun 
a brown-skinned mister
a warm brown-skinned mister wearing nothing but his sleeves
lay next to me, quietly, watching me dream

he declared a nightmare he battled and won as i
dragged my palm across scars bruises burns
touching him on purpose
where i’m sure it once hurt 
but then the fool kissed my hand
as if to take all that pain back, I
couldn’t wipe the smirk
off my face
he had me wrapped
in his warm
didn’t want a blanket to do his job
this hazy morn’ i was
beside myself with him

perhaps, there was no return to reality

Britta B.

A white truck, delivering expensive gardens, swings
around the corner of the house where
two twenty-something year old females glowing
from foreign backgrounds, kneel over
spoiled soil.
They pull over-grown weeds from dry
dust-ridden
dirt
The sound
feels like a good scrub
One of the glowing ethnic empresses
pricks her thumb on something sharp
and goes inside to wash it off
as I watch it all, sitting
in the soon-to-be
garden of
Eden.

Britta B.

sitting on these slanted rocks
thinking ’bout these slanted thoughts
contemplating on jumping
into this lake or
falling back in love.

Britta B.