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Emily Burns


Go to page 2 of Emily Burns Poetry.
Emily Burns' profile

finding grace

My generous hands
forgot how to pray.
I watched the butterfly
rise on strong winds
hoping that in the opening
and closing
of her silent wings
I might remember.
 
My heart is vacant.
The words all wandered off
and I've been searching-
for what
I can't name.
Hands wide open
and waiting.
 
My knees tremble-
ache-to please again.
But my hands won't remember
and the words won't come back.

possibility

I sacrifice myself
on the seat of possibility
but only
when the wind blows strongest.
 
I was born
to serve.
 
You never wonder
that I am so easily
found
 
only that I wander
so quietly
away.

non-sense

somebody's in my head again
stretched out between those two earholes
they've done been in there for two days
maybe more
don't know what they're lookin for
i keep all the shiny stuff put away
with the butterflies
and the spiders webs
 
and my thoughts
they all wear different languages
the kind i talk in my sleep
and you won't know them anyhow
you haven't met them too close before
 
somebody's in my head again
pushing,pushing
straining, yearning
 
and i wish i knew who it could be

not where i thought i was going

i used to dress my words up in all their sunday glory
before i sent them out into the world
squeaky clean and sunday morning i was determined
to let my little light shine

forget a blue period
the next phase was all about
boiled down to the bare bones honest
pretty didn't have a consideration
or private
but my words met metal

then the weather turned wet
and i sobbed along
wringing my grief out of loose pages
and you still stopped by
and sometimes you'd even sing along

then i prayed to be taller
to stand straighter
to be more of what i am

i got lazy and lined literal words up
all in a row
i was lauded for creative
cause everybody knows things like that
can't happen

Shatter

I think

I might

just

s  h  a  t  t  e  r

my hands tremble
my chest aches
my vision is dark
just as if someone
has pulled the veil

sometimes i think
my existence is so very cluttered
that i can't muddle through

what would happen
to all the
tiny
little
shards

o  f    g  l  a  s  s 

if I
fell?

fear

the sharks are circling

my thoughts have big teeth


Picture

Maybe

I stopped singing siren songs

some time ago.

My voice faltered.

My heart skipped

     notes

til I forgot all the words.


No more songs.


When I am one again,

I will speak the words

sweet and slow.


And, maybe,

scrawl the gracious invitation

on an elegant card

with all my best letters.

still

I am still waiting
for another shoe
to fall
 
Because loving you
was always too
easy
 
And the sun still lingers
where you
smile

seduced

"maybe nothing"

your words
ran away with me
this morning
maybe it was the fog
creeping in through open windows
til I surrendered
maybe my imagination
was seized strongest
by the first words I met on waking
maybe I dreamed you
only to wake and hear you whisper
stay close

Yearning

The hills lay raw and bare.
Unbound breasts heaving
in the gray mist of early morning.
I wish I were the hills
and this car you're driving
was a strong, slow hand
snaking around my own loosed curves.
I want to be crossed by your
barest elemental energies--
moved by passion’s own embrace.
I want to stretch and reach the sky
and stretch and touch the dirt
and feel each resonant-twinge in between.
I want to be filled with the light
and the heat of a new day--
just as the valley
after the fog is burned away.
I want to feel the vibrations of thunder
deep in the middle of me
 
rumbling of something resembling change
again and again and again
until the light is extinguished.
Then I will breathe deep and slow
breasts heaving raw and bare
in the gray mist of a hillnight.

self-portrait, maybe

some of those vital statistics are undeniable
i may be five eleven and a half
but i generally round the number down
(my son exaggerates me into the six foot range)

my eyes are brown
and my hair

but someone who craves my voice
may tell you that they never notice
either

age changes, not year by year
but moment by moment
wisdom sometimes measures me a hundred or more
and joy may number me a child
with shining eyes

i can accomplish temporary feats
of domestic talent
sew a quilt to keep you warm
bake a cake to keep you fed
but my voice accomplishes phenomena
that defy description

i make miracles
sometimes
when folks aren't looking
nothing as tall as a skyscraper
something less tangible
and ordinary
as light or healing

my size may be slight
i may be timid
or bold
depending on the weather

storms wither
clouds focus
i had a vision
for where this was going
when i started
maybe someday
i'll get there

Go to page 2 of Emily Burns Poetry.

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