Up the Chimney

Volcanoes. Boiling inside me. Triggered by the mundane, others would laugh it off. Maybe smoke it in their lungs and out. Tar scarring an imprint. For some, a drink is all the fun, dizzying the mind away from pain. Hang over and next thing you know, it’s come back to haunt you. Think I’ve found…

Sunday Morning

  Sometimes I count the way you look at my hair in the wild and green Sunday morning walks at the park. I count the stare. One blink. Two blink. Three and four. And when I try to look back, you turn your eyes to the ground. As if the ground has something more important…

Flame

  he looked at me with burning eyes scorching flare I stared at him with certainty fearless dare desire heating our every touch never have I felt a love as such © Nicoletta If this poem had a voice, this is what it would sing…   Photo by Charles Newton Price: Black Rock City, Nevada…