VERSEWRIGHTS
  • Welcome
  • All Poets
  • PoetryAloud
  • Inbox Peace
  • The Press
  • Journal Archives

Laurie Kolp


Why Aging is Geographical

My cuticles are not
what they used to be.
They crust and crack
my thinning skin
into clay.
When I look
at my hands and feet
I see veins popping up
like Blue Ridge Mountains.
This raised topography
tops off my need
for leveled aging.
I’m stuck
at the surface
of decay
while you
zip-line across the sky
away from me.
​

Lost in Gray Matter

An entourage of options
I explore on nights
when sleep eludes me: what if
number one finds me
naked in a pool of blood, or
number two refuses to
lift me from quicksand, or
number three picks
the closet lock.
A tremor, the obsession
in my mind
drives me to fictitious
places. Lost, there is no
detour back.
​

The Disassembly

​Mountains the color of eggplant and kale
expand like a pregnant woman. I am
kidnapped within a line of trees,
frightened: am I the only one?
 
I carry half a bottle of water,
have pocketed unsalted almonds
left by the man. Is this my grave
or am I finally free to pass go?

Sidetracked

A two-lane highway country road
they travel down, the memories
hit her like a junkyard load.
A two-lane highway country road
with fruit stands, windmills spinning odes
antique shops, junk yards, free puppies--
the two-lane highway country road
they travel down draws memories.
​

Picture


​Laurie Kolp's profile

Phantasm of a Widow

The shutter’s rap startles you awake.
Two men in ditch behind your house
wrestle like brothers vying for a show
of dominance, their lithe bodies like
pretzels dipped in moonshine.
Slumberous you close your window
unfurl the dusty blinds, return to bed
 
but a sudden clap of hands against the gutter
lures you back to take a slotted peek outside
and suddenly you’re lucid
looking into eyes you recognize, eyes
you once loved— the musky sweat
of slaps in rush of rapture.
 
You want to touch his whiskered cheeks
just one more time, want to shatter
glass and reach your arms into
this other realm. You’re so close
you can almost taste his lips,
can almost rub your fingertips
in sticky blood he shed that night
he lost the fight, blood dripping
from your glass-shard skin.
​

To fall in love again

figure my spine
with sylphlike fingers

lace each vertebrae
side by side

weave in and out
with quiet breaths

until my sudden gasp
leads you deep within

and bends me back
to you.
​

Hormonal Duress

​We were trying to get by on one income
the year of birthing our third child in four years
the year my hormones misfired bullets
to your ego, my letting go of frustration--
too much time alone without adult interaction,
the allure of becoming a stay-at-home mom
not what I expected— and you became
my target, you with the job that should pay more
all those long ungodly hours spent at the office
with people who didn’t praise you enough
or give you a raise when I needed more
than suckled milk to satisfy my urge to run
the year Columbia disintegrated
like a bombshell dropped before the reentry.

Comments?

***

​Thank you for visiting Tweetspeak VerseWrights.
© 2012-2018. VerseWrights. All rights reserved.:
Acrostic Poems
Ballad Poems
Catalog Poems
Charlotte Perkins Gilman Poems
Epic Poetry
Fairy Tale Poems
Fishing Poems
Funny Poems
Ghazal Poems
Haiku Poems
John Keats Poems
Love Poems
Math, Science & Technology Poems
Ode Poems
Pantoum Poems
Question Poems
Rondeau Poems
Rose Poems
Sestina Poems
Shakespeare Poems
Ship, Sail & Boat Poems
Sonnet Poems
Tea Poems
Villanelle Poems
William Blake Poems
Work Poems

To translate this page:
  • Welcome
  • All Poets
  • PoetryAloud
  • Inbox Peace
  • The Press
  • Journal Archives