Melinda Foshat

Poetry, Prose, Photography


Forbidden Love

He saw the perfect picture of a story he could never tell. Not because he couldn’t pen the words, but because he alone could understand. This was his curse. To live with such magnificence, yet unable to share it. His vision-those black eyes so full of wonder-they were his beauty. The world would never see it.

I loved him because he was corrupt. Because there was something evil within him, a force to be wreckened with. We all hide secrets from each other. Secrets only the night knows. He was mine. I look into the mirror and see only his eyes staring back. If I listen long enough, I can hear something other than my fears.

It’s not just the heat that turns people crazy. It’s the sound of the bugs that accompanies it. A slow, steady, pulse that heaves and scratches, digging into your skin. The salty moisture of the air on your aching lips- Everyone thirsts for something.

© Copyright – All rights reserved – – January 07, 2018



The Secret

A hatred that will last a lifetime.
Still, you meant something to my hell.

© Copyright – All rights reserved – – December 21, 2017


In My Last Hour

Spare me the leisure
For I am far from fond of comfort

Take down the rows of China
Bring the lilacs from the garden

Put the curtains out to dry
Let the fire simmer freely

Open all the windows
Hang the birdcage from the ceiling

Pour the garlic from the chalice
Stamp my letters with the date

And please be sure to listen
To not a word of what I say

© Copyright – All rights reserved – – February 22, 2014


The Gift

Tears are a gift
A telescope so that we might see the depth of our emptiness
And the fullness inside the nothingness

Beyond our sight lies a truth
That one must seek for himself

Be not quick to shed your tears
Instead, shed yourself
And for the first time
See the greatness of the universe

Tears are a gift
A telescope so that we might see the magnitude beyond ourselves
Look and be comforted

© Copyright – All rights reserved – – February 20, 2014

Leave a comment

The Deserter

When the children come, they come bearing stones and sticks.
I say to them, “where is the twine which to tie them together?”

They continue, barefoot along the uncultivated grass.

They hadn’t understood me.
They are only children.
And the world is too simple, too sweet,
For the formation of knots.

Positioned alee the iron gate, they arch each stone and stick at the other’s crown.

“Harm not your brother! Lest you spend eternity seeking that sacred
Salvation which cannot be found!”

They hadn’t heard me.
They are only human.
Now they lie on that ancient road
From which I have long travelled.

My feet bleed, blister. There is no hide along my brittle boot.
I search for them, they are lost. Only mad men slump in place.

Beneath Earth’s dust stained red,
Irises battle to see God.
Mounting toward the smoking heavens,
A view bombarded.
And my shako chord falls
Along the apple of my eye.

© Copyright – All rights reserved – – February 5, 2013