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Ginny S.

Dead Time.

sometimes i feel that music
is all the same
is all connected
is not original
anymore
and never was

sometimes i feel i am
a creature capable only of
ephemeral love
a rose, a prose that dies too soon
unless watered down by
the elusive

sometimes i feel like i am
a magnet to the unrequited
an outlet for the spited
a threshold for the uninvited
a dying light for the benighted

[...] Read more

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The Robin.

little red robin outside the glass
catching all the rain on a dreary day
i knew nothing of his past
but i felt familiar with him anyway

red-chest robin with his face in the dirt
all his friends were slimy little worms
he called the dry, thin twigs his perch
mothers keep your kids away; he’s crawling with germs

little red robin, how could you be
the brown-mask bandit of the maple tree
little red robin, can you hear my plea –
get down from up high before you feel too free

i knew it couldn’t belong until the sprig would break
a grim “cheerio! ” to the world he cried
his little red soul then the lord did take
when he swooped into the pane and died

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