aspiring poet working on his first chapbook of poetry...
We don’t know how long it takes for a whale to fall—we don’t even know when it falls feast. I wondered how long before this
By Gerry Thibeaultabout a month ago in Poets
warm water, a bowl I did not become the bowl the surface within
Fuck you, she said, fuck you, was the last thing she said to me—bitch, I wanted to say. That was all she said, that was your only response—that’s it, all you’re going to tell me?
By Gerry Thibeaultabout a month ago in Fiction
to kiss randomly our love has become a ghost occasional calls
wolf poets, a herd Kuroshio driving warmth minnows minnowing
Yellow or Blue Would I yawn if it was much longer, buy a horse instead . Sit tall and straight on its bare back looking
The danger to flirting is its necessities, its many forms, pages and being on the right one, its strength to draw you in and hold
Sitting around the cabin in the warm sun carefully peeling the labels from frosted moist stubby beer bottles as if divine
crimson warrior gnawing animals comfort breath of dog anent One of the things I love about haiku is they can be found in poems I’ve already written. I love to read, write, and discuss poetry—follow and I will follow back!
It is always a Sunday on the eighteenth green, the patrons silent, the sounds of a prop engine overhead, the commentary is low.
lurking in the firs above dining decorum springtime sparrowing
shy smiles I redden blushing on the edges of a flowering pith
