Rose Garden.

by: a.paige

Go on. It's okay. You are well now, though you are the sixth child. You have been healed. For whatever reason, life didn't deliver the child before you.

Your mother is reborn; you meant every word you said. The weeding was tough, as though you gutted yourself..., yanking at your heart, which you held even tighter. Oh, the thorns! Still you trusted your mind and did not let it close..., letting it be guided by which you tried so hard to protect..., strengthening their bond, even as you began to release them... The mind and the heart in perfect union now, yet still allowed full independence. To think..., to act..., to feel..., to shed tears... To live again. You watered the barren ground and created a garden. And in offering your heart, your mother has revived hers. You gave her a garden, and a rose has grown there since.

Go on. It is all right now. Grow a rose garden. Write. Paint. Create. There is no one way. But act on it, as with anything else. Go ahead. Plant your seeds. Dig... Water... Prune... Then watch your garden grow.

***For her name is Rose, dedicated to my mother.

Rolling...stoned, la Chanteuse. [poeTry]

by: a.paige

She's so damn bored, she's toned...
She rolls right in so toned...
Yes, she's toned, alright, so stoned.

She screams, “I grew up, I grew up, I'm free!
Independence, ice cream, and mee!
Smile, stretched wide..., it’s mee!

Her followers fuss, “Don’t hate!”

So the legs are spread once more...

She's an artist after all, she’s bored.

So damn bored, she’s toned...

She rolls right in, so blind...

We overthink it, she just does it, so stoned.

The rest of the world, meanwhile,

can’t afford a blind eye this time...

The maidens and the children cry out...

violated by the pervs' cold hands.

They cry out in pain...in vain...

While she s...creams, “It’s mee, It’s mee!

I grew up, I grew up, I’m free!

Molly and Teddy, and mee!”

So spread those legs... High Five!

Don’t think about your goal in life

To make a stand AINT the role to play

Just smile, be yourself..., be mee!

The rest of the world, meanwhile,

can’t afford a blind eye this time...

The maidens and the children cry out...

So spread your wings..., reach out.

Maybe she's really just steeped in pain...

If only she would stretch her hands for help,

not hide behind her painted smile...

Her naked veil reveals the irony.

A real artist, she, her father spews.

Molly and Teddy, stewed...

Maybe he’s right, take a gum to chew.

But the rest of us can see right through.

Emily, Emiy, where aRT thou? [POETry]

by: amica paige


Emily, Emily, where aRT thou now?
Can you hear us? Can they see us,
those with you—
are Poe and Bukowski?

We wring our guts from the foods we ate
We swallowed a rock we can't digest
The sharpest parts stabs our chests
We choke our tears to gasp for breath

Lost at sea, what have we chased?—
The seeds we'd tossed—have the beanstalks raised
the beast that slays the golden sun?
The rotten egg has spoiled the fun.

Our faces drawn—a bitter frown
Our heads, weighed down—a painted crown
Is it just us? We must have made
a wrong turn somewhere there...

We've meant to change this course we're on
If we turn here, will we stay long?
“I'll be your guide,” I hope you say—
Please don't mind me say.

Emily, Emily, where aRT thou now?
Can you see us? Can they hear us,
those with you—
are Poe and Bukowski?

The Muse At The Seams. [poeTry]

by: amica paige


Perpetual disarray.
Discombobulated
and knotted hair.
A feet of floss
for an inch of green...
Broccoli...parsley,
all else in between.
You peered in the mirror,
so as not to be seen.
A fleet of Albatross!—
your flitting mind screamed.
You knelt down right
before you jumped in.
The morning shower
you now lingered in...
thoughts discomfiting
and late lunch sans cream.

A peek at thy thoughts show
the muse at the seams...

Still Life... Or Calm Before The Storm. [poeTry]

by: amica paige


Ominous sky outside.
Dark clouds surrounding us.
Yet the preachers preach their thing,
and the audience, and the leaves, hang still.
A storm must be brewing near.

Unlike the APPles...red and green,
the brushes—all frayed, unseen...
Yet the hands like to draw neat things,
though the air 'round here stays still.
A storm must be brewing near.

Today is done. [poeTry]

by: amica paige


Today is done.
Nothing else to be sung.
We shall close our eyes
one two many times to-night
We begin the descent this eve
and fall into another deep sleep
We shall rest like this,
we’re designed like it.
Then we rise again,
and on and on again.

Home [poeTry]

by: amica paige


you're a bird,
guided by moonlight,
calling the wind

you're a bird,
perched on the crowns
of elms and evergreens

you're a bird,
riding with time,
spanning the seas

you're a bird,
soaring the heavens,
spreading your wings

you're a bird,
roaming the world,
but the air is your home.