"You do this all the time" he said, frustrated and I laughed. "Saying only half of your thought then stopping the rest from coming out. Don't you know how much that bothers me? I'm so curious..." "Why do you tease me?" He looked peeved, but I knew. "You mean one thing but seem to say … Continue reading Just Going Through the Phases
This poem was actually published in my local literary journal. It concerns my thoughts while I was in a long-distance relationship. Gal, those suck. You are the sound of Bossa. The ringtone that announces to the world who's talking. My fingers glitch on the small keypad, continueing the conversation in my hand. Keeping you in … Continue reading Text Relationship
He was born with the mind of an artist, but, through some trick of fate, was given no means to express it. Some would say along with a small shameful part of my mind, that he is like a child, playing pretend in a world long since gone and dead, and therefore, no use for … Continue reading He Has an Artist’s Mind
Bite deep to my bones and take breath to tell what taste I possess. Lick wide to gather all the touch so I can be velveteen. Then clutch me hard and desperate, with sight thrown back to fully smell my afterimage: A flash of red and solo.
You have my summers, My pre-school years, And all the baby moments Still trapped behind ears. Broad fingers giving illusions That your hands are big, Fit for holding A baby. You say I was one Once. An angel. Hands to hold an angel. But I came in to hug you Now, then, not long at … Continue reading Grandpa
My love, You were raised with your father's ideals but by your mother's pragmatism. When talents first bud upon your hands, you clapped for joy and squished them between your palms, making room for more, but not height for growth. My love, You spy the light on the other side with delight, for look, a … Continue reading Wet Wings
My eldest son, when he was not quite two, loved crushing the daisies that grow like dandelions in coastal Oregon. He'd yank them up, then crush them with a satisfied "Doh!" Yeah, probably the cutest thing on the whole dang planet. But, then again, I'm his mother. Biased to the extreme. Yet, at the same … Continue reading Remember to Crush the Daisies
I remember that striped shirt. The one my father wears. My little baby had barfed all over mine, so he gave me one of his from the dirty laundry. It had smelled... of generic male deoderant. Not the most sentimental of shirts. And he's still wearing it. Maybe my baby should have barfed all over … Continue reading Baby Barf
Father says that like our ancestors who left the homeland to seek out better opportunity, he is leaving the States to a country that's poor, but desperate, for a money-making opportunity. I can only listen as I hold my baby, which he barely sees, and wonder why this land isn't enough for him. Father says … Continue reading What Father Says About Living
Come here, softly now, because your heart and every tender feeling of your soul is breaking, and one careless step will shatter you. I know. I've been there too. I've caught my lover's personal whore legs spread on the screen-- the page, the phone, hidden from me and stealer of all his need for me. I've … Continue reading Come Softly, Now
Author T.S. Lowe 