Stream of Consciousness
Shape of a Mother 🌹
A beloved Mother bravely sits up in her bed, propped up by pillows of wished feathery comfort...silently, she bears her pain...uncomplaining. She stares into the unknown void, imagining the last embers of her life flame soon to be extinguished. Around her haven, watching vigilantly, are her children. 🌹
By Novel Allenabout a year ago in Poets
June
6/28/25 In June there were wasps at every corner. There were men and women and children with blown out feathers like peacocks or the figure in that field now floating in every direction at the sound of fire. Fear of being stung is just as bad as popcorn lung or tachycardia to some people. Same levels of adrenaline and whatnot. It’s been beautiful for a year but the news sites keep writing the same flood over and over again and we’re starting to worry about the pipes. You’re starting to give in to the thing that I needed your strength to stop. Now we’re using plastic cups instead of glassware because the kids have nowhere else to go so they gather at every turn and they don’t get paid to be here so it’s no use saying excuse me. They don’t even pull the legs of their pants up so it’s leaving tracks all over the floor. In June it’s cold and then it’s hot and the rain should stop sooner or later. The families in soft sand don’t think about peeling off denim skirts in the bathrooms because they have a roast that’s ready at home and the kids are starting to get hungry. Don’t worry— he took the feathers off. He’ll make sure your bowl is bone-free and he called his friend to update the plumbing and, even so, nothing could take your mind away from the plate in front of you. Wasps don’t build their nests in places they aim to destroy and June doesn’t hold off disaster for anyone. Pack an umbrella and drench your skin in sticky glow. Just because it’s their only choice doesn’t mean they aren’t grateful.
By Olivia Dodgeabout a year ago in Poets
Ten Seconds Before the Train Arrives
Ten seconds. The station smells of rain-soaked concrete and old newspapers. Somewhere down the track, metal wheels hum like a distant storm. The display says Arrival: 0:00, but the train hasn’t yet broken through the tunnel’s mouth.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Poets
