Poetry

Poem #2 – April 2, 2017

/ Christina L. Felton / Leave a comment

Hot coffee morning,

Banging in the kitchen –

Don’t you know the sun is out?

It has been three days.

Ziggi’s is busy this morning,

But I find a table near the plug on the wall,

Just in case.

 

I miss the 40 inch tall

Standing tables,

They made long Sunday mornings divine.

Now my hip pinches my nerve

And sciatica screams down my leg and

Back up –

Hard wood chairs.

My friend folds a thick sweater to tuck

Underneath,

Against the hard,

A woolen barrier.

 

The next table is where

the best sellers are written,

On Sunday mornings,

While I neglect

Three or more books I’ve started

To daydream,

A sip hot coffee.

Poem – April 1st, 2017

/ Christina L. Felton / 2 Comments

Exhaust and carburetor fumes hung on his clothes like a poison aura.

“Where did he go?”

She looks up, and tells him,

“He went back home to dance with his demons and his dying dad.”

“Oh.”

Then the smell of the Fast Orange cleaning his hands in sink.

He had been cutting trees to keep her warm.

Later that night, a log rolled off the fire,

Leaving a path of hot stars, like a angry swarm of bees, that she could not pick up with her hands.

She felt foolish for not paying better attention. 

Tomorrow the sun will be out, and she will enjoy driving.

The cacophony of open window spring music, from the cars all around.

She will open her fingers and let the air move through them.

Iceland

/ Christina L. Felton / 1 Comment

The heat of my passion rises,

pulling me apart and running over my flesh.

The sea pulling the tendrils of my shorelines.

I huff and snort like horses after a run.

Tears and sweat of my heroes and widows,

run downstream and over waterfalls.

Ancient lumber jacks shave my trees away like a beard,

and the sheep sheer my grass stubble.

Whales sing melodies softly in my ears.

The thunder of Viking footsteps – a drum.

Birds fly about like unbraided hair.

The ravens like loose eyelashes,

carrying wishes.

My breath hangs in rolling mists all around me.

My eyelids hang heavy with darkness in winter,

but wide in the wee hours of summer.

Sagas float on my wind,

in tongues old as time.

I am new.

Always.

If you listen,

you will hear the story I have to tell.