My Poetry

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My grief is a hollow

Sometimes inside.

Sometimes out.

A feeling that rises.

A spot on the chair, waiting for me to sit.

Other times, it darts, wild attack from around the corner.

Hell from on high. M e r c i l e s s.

Me sobbing — hideous, maudlin.

It has tender moments, too.

The gentle prodding of memories during sleep.

Soft purrs. Voices. Scents. A taste on the tongue.

It’s true what Daddy says.

The dead N E V E R leave us.

Colleen Sohn



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Moon and sun, and planets in the pre-dawn!

Grateful for rising early.

Venus, Saturn, Mars, Jupiter, a satellite whizzing.

Get up, get dressed, get out. GO!

The geese are quiet,

Watching the bald eagle in the tree.

A companion calls and they are both off, winged acrobats, climbing and falling, flapping and soaring.

Heart singing and geese now squawking.

Crows cawing.

The frost crunching. Hands cold.

Breath steaming. Heart thumping.

It is wonderful to be alive!

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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 –




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


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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