constellation #3

This is collection of pandemic-time poems I wrote throughout 2020 and into early 2021.

Photo by Evie S. on Unsplash

Tragedy Times

Too soon summer,
tragedy times;
in this nightmare,
I had a dream.
Careless wishes,
comedy hour;
in a panic,
a laugh from a scream.
Simulate it,
intelligence on high;
in a whisper
my skeptical muse.
All my friends feel
they have moved in to die.
Who will come
to save them from the news?
Trees scrape sky,
heat rash gold,
move west, start again
in a bedroom in the cold.
Shaking nation,
begging for a dime,
clocks in towers,
lie about the time.
Hands like leather,
tearing at the seams,
blood in water,
cuts from guitar strings.
Spring is never,
tragedy, these times,
in this nightmare,
broken by design…


Photo by Karl on Unsplash

One night tinged with death
and I became her,
the poet from the TV,
the girl on the floor of her room.
And the words
came around my head,
like a satellite,
like a satellite,
And that is how it feels,
like a message from space,
like downloads from a star,
to write, to write.
It feels like night,
like flight.
Dizzy, buzzing,
productive and right.
It's no wonder she
stayed inside;
there's no predicting
when a storm will strike.
And when it comes you need
quiet, need a pen,
any one,
sure, a marker,
that's alright.
You need patience
not to write
new words
before the old ones are rhymed,
and just one moment of time—
The words come around my head,
like a satellite,
like a satellite,
and…


Photo by Elia Pellegrini on Unsplash

Oh, Progress, beautiful,
I'll never condone the way
they forget about
the things you've done for them,
will never forgive the way
they never let you breathe.
Oh, Progress, baby,
I wrote you a letter
and I sent it out to sea.
I wish they all
left you to yourself,
to come in and come out,
crashing like time.
Don't they know
they'll never drown you out?
They have been drowning
in you all along,
terrified, somehow, of salt.
Progress, you are suffocating,
in the heat and in the
corners of the cold.
Progress, you carry
the growing scope of human identity
in your gentle hands.
Don't they know your power?
Don't they know you shape their earth?
Oh, Progress…


A Poem

Photo by Federico Beccari on Unsplash

If there’s a heart, it will break,
what’s expected will not come.
Are we kismet or are we
something unexpected just for once?
So I’ll write something down
In the pages of your book,
and if you understand,
we’re meant to be, like serendipity.
How much of life’s divine?
That’s the wonder of it all,
that’s the hypnosis of the stars,
it’s one worst fear of ours.
How much of what you do comes back
In the setting of our suns?
How much of me was done before
those stars even begun?
How much of karma’s circumstance?
How much of fate, delusion?
How much of intuition is
just logical conclusion?
I can’t even say that I
believe in anything because,
this world…


A Prose Poem

Photo by Harry Grout on Unsplash

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, I want a house. I want it where the sun is always setting. I want it in the middle of nowhere and close by to everyone I’ve ever loved. Oh god, I want a porch. I want a kitchen painted yellow. Oh god, I really don’t much mind the suburbs, do I? Cities scare me, its cars and light that clouds the stars, and so does open country. Coyotes and cicadas. Land and land and people with flags that tower, tower over everything. I’ve been sheltered for so long. We don’t…


A Poem

Photo by Europeana on Unsplash

Did they give it to you, too?
The impression
that all of life’s explained.
They gave it to me,
and they seemed under it too,
the impression.

Science, that great magic,
describes what it can,
names things for how
they appear in the light.
And, so, I was
under the impression
it all was explained.

(deja vu, and history,
and intuition,
and shipwrecks and sleep,
and photographs
of people
who look a lot like aliens,
and the sea, and,
of course, the mystery)

(It isn’t)

It isn’t, at all,
all explained,
so, should you be?
So, should I?

Do not…


A Poem

Photo by Sasha Freemind on Unsplash

There is no romance like being alone;
there is no agony like it, and since agony
is so romantic, yes, you are in love.
You’re the only one who’s ever
really made the promise.
You’re the only one who’s lies
can never fool you. You’re the one.
The others, they will love you,
but they will never be you
and you can share a house, but not a head,
which is true home, in the end.
There is no devotion like self,
no intimacy like laughing
at things never said out loud.
What else can you do?
She is your only accomplice in truth,
your only proven thing.
You have no option
but to care for…


A Poem

Photo by Daniel De Los Santos on Unsplash

Ominous marquees,
anagrams of my name,
small-business politics,
open space on the other side.
I’ve been in the car too long.
HELL IS REAL
I can hardly remember the morning.
I can hardly remember leaving the house,
it was so long ago.
YOU ARE BURNING NOW.
Fields and fields of strawberries
and New Jersey Tomatoes.
Churches with no congregates.
The sun is going down.
IT’S NOT AN ILLUSION.
TIME REALLY IS MOVING FASTER.
Radio is on to conserve battery.
ETA creeps forward without fail.
Cycles of the same seven songs.
At least there is something to look at.
DOING NOTHING IS DIFFERENT
THAN HAVING NOTHING TO DO.
This is the drive of a lifetime,
this is golden sky and
windows down…


A Poem

Photo by Michael Kilcoyne on Unsplash

Bright Star,
I’m afraid you might
burn out
if you soar any higher.
I know it feels
like a drug up there.
We see you
and you shine,
but light brings shadow.
The atmosphere
at such a height is
thin and heady.
I know — it’s the possibilities,
incredible numbers,
but there is a truth.
There are things you can touch.
Some things are real,
some things are not questions,
some things enlighten.
Bright star,
there is a reason for real life,
whether or not we know it
or pretend to.
Maybe it’s sincerity.
Bright Star
I know you dream in color
and it’s tempting to live
up there among it all,
to look down on it…


A Poem

Photo by Guilherme Caetano on Unsplash

The mirror traps me
where I stare.
She’s a siren,
it’s a calling on the wind
from the air vents in the ceiling
and I shiver,
but it’s a nice cold.
And here in the quiet
I am delicate,
beautiful,
here in my room,
I am alone.
I think I have a complex.
I check my reflection
in every window we walk by.
I say I don’t know why,
but it’s because
I can hear her there,
always,
singing,
all the time,
the siren in the mirror,
the awful need to exist just right.
This — vanity on paper,
proves her true,
proves her tragic.
I wish I never met her.
I could tear out my eyes,
but I think I would still…

Meghan

26, she/her. I am a poet, an art school drop out, a perfectly adequate snowboarder, an unhinged fan girl, a serial hobbyist, and a klutz.

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