Cold season’s sky
The color of
old men’s teeth.
a hapless, heavy gray.
Needles piercing tattooed skin
Like an angry crowd’s
Then a bud,
A blade of chartreuse grass.
It only takes an infant’s smile
To excise labor’s pain.
By Stacy Alexander, 2017
there comes a time
when we love
but do not
weight of their
smile. That’s when
we start writing poetry
There is a way between voice and presence
where information flows.
In disciplined silence it opens.
With wandering talk it closes.
Slam poetry at its finest!
These ducks were not yet hatchlings
When the cold lake took your last warm breath,
enveloping your heart as it slowed and
you slid downward, toward the silt
until it stood still.
This morning, the lake looks the same
Crows complaining through the dawn’s silver air
Geese overhead, marching through fine silk clouds
Your ashes on a mantel, miles up shore,
cannot see the waters early magic sparkle.
This shine came from your eyes.
Eyes rolling upward like the waves
Lapping onto shore
An early, watery grave.