Writing

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Thaw

I wonder

if the earth,

when frozen and unyielding,

scented by the two notes of acrid exhaust and wood smoke,

intends for the thaw to be so glorious.

For every pore to release

days and days of sweetness in one heady gasp,

and for me,

in perfect time,

to venture outside in communion.

I perform my daily ablution,

rhythmic thump and whoosh of scrub brush on concrete bird bath,

a delicate scattering of seed,

while uttering Hello to all that moves and breathes.

My feet gladly squelch

loam that gives and gives -

honeyed

muddy

soft.

It is a good question.

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Sunset Walk

Copper light spooling into dusk

and we walked in the crisp of it.

Woolen collar turned

to warm the cool of my neck,

hand tucked in his coat pocket

and laced perfectly together.

We kissed under a thrill of neon

to the zooming of cars.

All before the rain fell.

Colleen Sohn

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Smooth as Glass

 

There was a man, old and withery, yet shirtless and cocky as a surfer.

If a surfer carried a pipe and wore a crown of daisies, that is.

In between rabid pacing and punching at an invisible bag, he screamed.

Screamed about the awful torment of the sea.

How she doesn’t give a shit about anyone but herself.

Roaring and raging and destroying sand castles and

swallowing men whole,

some spat back within an inch of their lives,

countless others never seen again,

save a shoe, laced and protecting a pristine foot.

And boats! His favorite tug gone to toothpicks,

with her never stopping for one god-damned second,

just going and going and going.

Such malice!

Yet, the whole time, the sea was smooth as glass.

Colleen Sohn

p.s. Written with a nod to Bukowski

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Addiction

That first sip of liquor

nibble of cake

bead of blood under the sharp blade

is our remembering.

Remembering

that first time

we belonged; we were perfect; we had a modicum of control.

That first sip of liquor

nibble of cake

bead of blood under the sharp blade

is our forgetting.

Forgetting

that we hover on the periphery,

flawed and powerless.

The second sip,

the second bite,

the blood sluicing,

is our punishment,

our loathing,

our attempt at escape.

We do not see

that we do belong

to ourselves

to the world

that we are every wild glimmer of forefathers and mothers,

the stars, the mountains, the bees.

So we sip and chew and cut (and more),

receding into the ether that was once us,

that was once love,

only to awaken,

with a renewed sense of failure

that we are NOT

those who belong

those who are perfect

those who command.

We are the cast-offs,

clasping meager suitcases, crestfallen,

while the golden ones, in their gleaming gilded chariots,

depart for greener pastures,

smiling.

And so we crumble into nothingness,

hidden amongst the din

of the multitudes that are not us

and sip and bite and cut anew.

Colleen Sohn

 ...

Alternate title – “After Watching Too Much Mad Men

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