A bitter taste
an after taste
He wants me to swallow
He holds my mouth open with Popsicle sticks
Over and over he examines it
Tag Archives: poet
Love in the Afternoon, Restoration
For the first time, I read a poem of mine (written in real time at the workshop) for an audience. Love in courage, I share my piece:
Babies
Poetic thought on the blessing coming prior to the maturity. Sometimes we postpone decisions or run from opportunity because we feel ill-prepared and lack faith; fear clouds the path to good stewardship. And in parenthood? Is one ever truly ready? Psalms 127:3 “Children are a gift from the Lord. They are a reward from Him.”
Role Call
Roll Call
by Margery Hannah
I am only a person
tall and plain, tongue maimed long
ago when cow bells were ringing.
I was in love with those big
eye chocolates
reminding me of me.
Taboo Brown and Blue
Genetics dictate we are a 50/50 split of our parents, and researchers have identified various cycles that continue from one generation to the next. But how similar are we really to our parents and how do we become our own person–and what loop will we become in the chain of familial tradition?
Killeen Sky
by Margery Hannah There is an ocean largeabove Texas where copper flickers ivory fish ribs scale the expanse like veinsContinue reading “Killeen Sky”
Storms
I look forward to them the way
I once wet-tongued over
cotton candy as a child.
Neon afro-sugar melting
in my mouth, what is
sweeter than that?
Magistrate
to my place of bread
I was unpleasant
unpleasantly duressed by lack
of water
I could wash neither body
nor favorite dress
nor feed my yielding inedible
plant, nor swallow it
240 minutes waterless
Prosperity
Prosperity
By Margery Hannah
Sand falls to the platter
of dry branches resting
in a baby cardboard box
I bless you and lower my gaze
wipe greased palms
on linen white
Drop it in the box
Chant, “Prosperity, prosperity, prosperity”
Match the platter with burning light
Now, spit upon the flames
You are now a footstool
for dreams abundant
Fig Trees
Fig Trees
By Margery Hannah
I want to be the red dot beaming
on canvas bleached
The Son I am to ears
bright of faces without teeth
The Tupac of despair, the Pryor
of fears laughing
at tears dried by Martin’s dream