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Why I Am Not A Painter

            A l l   C o n t e n t     ©2005-2021           E m i l i e  H a n s o n            e-mail             twitter                Minneapolis, MN               links & archives

            a pile of mostly raw and probably bad poetry

            on the internet
            in the hopes of creating something better

            This blog is not CLEAN and is not meant to be.
            Useful critique appreciated, i.e. specific comments and suggestions.

            You need not identify yourself unless you want to;
            comments will be judged on value, not the source. (Although knowing the source can be useful.)
            Unsupported heckling OR praise are not appreciated.

            Also, I vaguely apologize if you're my friend and you see yourself or others we know here.
            I am aware that that can be unsettling
            but that's the risk you run being friends with a writer. Also,
            maybe you're just being paranoid. Also,
            there is never a clear picture of reality

 

poem for David, pick up the phone

it is not often but immediate, like a gale
ripping clothes from the line, my need

to tin can and string be able to speak
into your ear and have you hear me. if only

we did live a few feet away, my flashlight
lightning morse code shining in your window

your non-reply echoing like thunder inside
my inside. i could do something about this

need, go into the rain and find you in
person when the string has been snapped

i only have this cell phone, it is
inadequate if you don't answer and i want

immediately to touch you, to tell you
i love you, this moment


posted by Emilie  # 11:07 PM
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