Melinda Foshat

Poetry, Essays, Resume


2 Comments

Something Blue

Spattered wine preserves
Indentations of his clutch
An indenture she shall serve
With a canvas for a frock
Behind a bouquet of knot

© Copyright – All rights reserved – Melindafoshat.wordpress.com – June 23, 2014


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The Jagged Edge

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The jagged edge you
Straddle along the boundary
Of right and wrong when
Your sweat runs smooth as silver
Never to reside on one

© Copyright – All rights reserved – Melindafoshat.wordpress.com – May 27, 2014


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Let Your Blood Run

When you face the fear of the blank page, cut open your heart, let your blood run.

A bloody page tells a better story than a blank one.

Don’t let it dry, keep the blood dripping down every page, until end’s time, when your reader cannot distinguish it from their own.

 

© Copyright – All rights reserved – Melindafoshat.wordpress.com – May 13, 2014

Moon in Pisces

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It’s crazy how truthful astrology is. Every last word of this is true, even the brief mention of being a massage therapist. Every one tells me I have a natural talent for it and that I should do it on the side.


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Night Falls

Night falls
So shall I fall with her

Though Moon, draped in her glory
Rises in the eye of hopeful lovers
Moon would be nothing without Night

In the pupil of her eye
Let me hide, next to Moon
Who is but a reflection
Of a barren world
Which worships itself

I lie with Night, yet I know
No one looks for love in the dark
Except for the fool
Who sees his soul glisten
Beneath the ripples in the sky
Where Aphrodite drowned long ago

© Copyright – All rights reserved – Melindafoshat.wordpress.com – March 13, 2014

 


4 Comments

The Madman’s Sonnet

Her inscription is so delicately pure,
That I shall never dare once to read her.
Though my eyes with aggravation grind,
To peak beneath her modest bind,
My ego as stern and as black as the stallion,
Restrains all compassion untamed for companion.
She pleads to be touched; she longs to be opened,
Still my attention remains unawokened.

The shelf she shall stay forever more,
Her fore-edge un-sore, her pages un-tore,
‘Til the day she falls mute on the floor,
Then might her story I lust to explore.

But to do so would only implore,
That I would be bound to burn the whore.

© Copyright – All rights reserved – Melindafoshat.wordpress.com – March 12, 2014


10 Comments

Static

Poster copy
Haiku 1

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