Melinda Foshat

Poetry, Prose, Photography



Yonder the sterile splinter’s wedge of winter on a fence’s edge,
A foreign field of dandies fly, forging toward the speckled sky.
As hummingbirds in all their haste cease to soon the season’s chase,
And Sycamore shade, quick to press, against the seedling seeking rest.

Yonder the battered brim of cobbled path, tread by soles of many past,
There the mud awaits the flesh, longing to make the raw the fresh.
Tainted by the mounting grass, reaching heights that none surpass,
Twisting vines forming sculptures of knot, secrete the wine of grapes unwrought.

Yonder the sag of incurvate roof, giving way to gravity’s proof,
Stands mountains erect in all their might, bowing only to morning’s light.
Sunshine reflects off of sandy shore due to the cycle of tide before,
Seashells remain as the proof of past, that what once was will forever last.

Yonder the day my body dies and my brittle bones bid you goodbye,
In the fields, the mud, the mountains high, my eternal soul greets you high.

RIP Kelsey Justin Stevens

© Copyright – All rights reserved – – August 30, 2013



The moon

The moon lies lopsided tonight
Her crescent: the shards of neglected dreams

It is ironic, that in the wake of reality
It is she, Moon, guardian of ancient knowledge
Who humbly bows her head and asks us to dream

For Dreams are the bonds which hold time and space together

The day man releases his sights from the stars
Moon will sink beneath the shadows of night
Never to return

I can not remember the last time I dreamt
But I know not a night goes by in which I do not try

As long as we dream to dream
The splendor of the universe will bring Moon to her knees

© Copyright – All rights reserved – – August 18, 2013