POET BIO: Wilma was born in a garden under the soft amber light of the Harvest Moon. She believes everything we feel can be seen in the Earth’s rhythms. The rain reflects our tears, thunder echoes our rage, flowers bloom with our joy, and still water mirrors our peace. She is steady, nurturing, and quietly…
It’s that time of year again. I am making the creative commitment to blog with the Cheer Peppers #nanopoblano2025 again as I have for the last several years. This year I am hoping to have three new blog posts each week for the next month. Over the next four weeks, I’ll be blending my passion…
The bleary comes To meet the weepy Before sitting down Next to sleepy So I try to find A place to rest Where peace And calm exist But all to often Moody comes With sad To steal Whatever’s left
Flimsy black spots Morph into lungs Breathing screams That sound like Laughter Gut busting Belly squeezing Ab eating Laughs that die On swollen tongues That run away With spoons Because Nursery rhymes Are for nightmares And black spots Belong on the moon
I wake up dangling Spinning as a spider Caught in the wind There is no up Down is everywhere To fall is to die To let go suicide So you spin And spin And spin Until the ground Finds your feet And you can finally Finally Finally Fall back to sleep
The sky is sagging Have you noticed? I caught some Like cotton candy A breathing mist And it felt weird Like sand Instead Of heavy air And like mercury Seeking blood It made a home Inside my lungs And I stopped Seeing with eyes And began to see As air sees Inside everything The truth…
I’ve crawled through Mirrors Reflections Dirty and broken Bloody knees Razor thin lines Next to jagged little Shattered ice kind And I barely feel The pain of it Anymore
The fog Snuggles up Easing Into my lungs Small drops Inhaled Dew drop worlds Pretty Like diamonds But The zirconia kind Because I can’t afford To breathe in Fog Made of diamonds
There has been a lot of anxiety leading up to today. I hope that at the very least you VOTE. There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it. Alfred Hitchcock My boyfriend checked in on me. He’s really good at that. He asked if I was nervous. I am but…
I painted this dancer and I messed up her arms. But I rather like it. I can relate. My body has its own rules Hidden, not written down Vague and unclear Very fog of war and unfair And when I make progress The rules change again Some things I get ya know Wrinkles come with…
