My Grandfather Who Lingers Still


At breakfast he sits just across

from the coffee cups and pats of butter,

elbows propped on either side of an empty

placemat while I flip through a magazine.


And then I am winding down with the

sun that hugs me through our bay window,

while he is swaying hello from the maple tree

with the shade that falls in and out like an eager child.


He turns down the bed and tells me

the same story of his childhood while I

brush my teeth and close the curtains,

routinely kiss the photo of him on the nightstand.


He touches my face, my grandfather

who lingers still, and I don’t feel it but I can.  

Either way there is a warmth I can’t explain;

he leaves me love letters in my dreams.


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I know a woman

who is existing in parallels,

yawning away the days

in a bone yard.


she shapeshifts

in the rain, she

swallows compliments

to thicken her lackluster skin.


I keep her under my tongue,

I keep her beneath the nails

on each broken index finger

and she is a trigger

I threaten to pull

with every aching silent wonder

that dresses me in starlight.


she comes up for air as often as a fish;

I am putting her to bed with dreams.


in secret I am heeding

her advice, because

our hands are the hands

that shift the universe.


and I’ve learned how

to sew to hide the damage,

maybe even to pretend

I don’t need any of this.


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heart incision

at night you place your hands

on two lives that thrive for you.


trek this globe,

this mother earth,

make a heart incision

and find there just how

much devotion is keeping us alive.


there are love notes that reach out

like sunlight towards the surface of my skin




you are removing

the hair from in front

of my eyes like curtains

through which we see the world


while I am thanking you

in infinite possibilities.


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“A Prayer in Spring” by Robert Frost

Nicole Marie:

A lovely poem by the wonderful Mr. Frost.

Originally posted on Words for the Year:

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid-air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.

~Robert Frost

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museum of me

you caught me in our closet

again, plucking strands of hair

in the almost dark.


I said I was weaving curtains

to keep your mother out,

so you turned on the overhead

bulb and went back to bed.


at breakfast you said weren’t hungry

while I hovered around your knees,

sopping up the milk that bled like

canvas paint through the bowl I’d

made from the bits of me I’d been saving.


I baptized your spoon and examined

what I’d been leaving behind; five

of my molars formed the handle.

I tossed it in with the other cutlery

and when you left for work you kissed

me goodbye and my jaw fell off.


I think you were absentminded when

you put it in your briefcase with your

ballpoint pens and paperwork, and I

was left at home to cover all the mirrors.


I think I hid beneath the bed until

heard our screen door open and slap shut.


when I emerged all limbs you’d popped

open your case on our bedroom floor,

making a museum of me.


and while I reached for every piece

with newspaper hands you sunk

into a nearby chair, clicked on the

lamp and read me every hidden archive.

** I would like to thank WordPress for choosing my poem, a poet to her son, to be Freshly Pressed last week, and to all those who liked, commented, or chose to follow my blog based on that piece: your feedback has been overwhelming. Thank you so, so much. I look forward to making even more writing connections!


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mother asleep in the woods

mother glows as well as any

creature of the night can glow.

slivers of her are seen in

pools of shy moonlight and

untouched there is something

there that is so much like

comfort I catch myself reaching

for her.


mother’s fingertips are molded

from cigarette ash instead of crazy glue.

she is calling me to the kitchen and

drinking from a carton of milk.


mother draws distress signals

in the flour on the counter and

reminds me again how lucky I am.

I pull a pack of cards from

the corner junk drawer and

build a house while she weeps

like a picture star.


I am constantly seeing her face

through a coating of pale and

blush the color of winter’s trees,

and in my dreams I find her

asleep in the underbrush with

nothing but the muted hues

of herself, and I cry and

fall asleep too.


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a poet to her son

the holy thrumming of the fan

in our bedroom is chanting your

lullaby in protective undertones.


I am cozy, staring into the poised

bassinet that will hold you just less

than cocooned to me in ten short weeks.

I practice knowing the smell of you,

I stay up later than I’m barely able just

to shake hands with the exhaustion

we’ll happily lend a room to.


and you – you are practicing self defense

beneath my flesh; to you, the only world there is.

I could make tiny wishes that you’d some day

tell me what my heartbeat sounds like from the inside:

glass-smooth jazz, a jagged pop beat?


I like to imagine my writer’s heart

beats like the honey of a romance novel,

appreciating with intensity every soft thump of life.


I question that you’ll read my work

(hold it high as Hamlet held Yorick’s skull)

hold it up to the light and memorize every vein,

test it for disease – or else wave it away as novelty.

at least do me this favor, son: read every word.

chance it. swallow it down and throw it up if you must.

this is your story, the most important I’ll ever write.


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the grower

it was spring and

my mind had withered to

hydrangea petals

all blue

twig fingers

scaling corners

of all the things

they could not touch.


i tried to say all

of where i’d been but

the earth pulled

at my elbows

and knees like

silk kite strings i

struggled to unravel

from around glass ankles.


taking flight was

a greenhouse pipe dream

i’d hidden in the

brightest pot

before i

placed petals where

my eyes used to be

and one behind my ear.


let them come, i thought

the grieving


might make

them think

of me

struggling to grow myself

somewhere out there.


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Nicole Marie:

Who wants to be just like everyone else?

Originally posted on hastywords:

This piece speaks for itself.  Thank you Logan for being beautifully brave !


What Autism Means to Me
Logan Beck

It is awesome to be different. It’s genetics. Our DNA makes us all unique, that is what God wanted. Acceptance is a big word but it’s really easy to do. Why would God place us all on the earth to be the same, I don’t want to be like everyone else. Why do some accept people in books and movies like Harry Potter, people who aren’t real but I’m real and some don’t accept me? I do awesome things.

I’m a great friend. I’m a gamer, love all things science, and creating new theories. I’m proud to be a quirky nerd.

We all have special powers. Others aren’t any better than mine, unless they can fly or shoot lasers from their eyes, that’d be cool. My mom and dad’s special…

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buying time






only looks


from a




come down

and see

she is



between all

of the



she is aging



they are

taking some-


you cannot


behind her





gave up

her two


teeth are

in her

coin purse






there is

a way




with your





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