'Who am I' she asks : A creative explosion of paradoxical remarks the student replied.



The Occupation


I’ll tell you how it was the world
changed, she said — the darkness
wrapped us around.

I heard her clearly, though I barely
heard the words. It was nearly — yes —
as if she was singing.

Our job, she was saying, was not
to change the world — nor even
to keep it from changing.

No, she was saying (the story
was over already): our only
job is being changed.


Selected Poems : Robert Bringhurst

Reasons to


I hadn’t thought to ask
Forgotten really, the reason
“Where have we been all along?”
It seemed silly
When we had all the reasons to

The Words


“I feel I have so much to say, that I
Can’t speak
At all. Is there such a thing as
The right words?”
“Only when you start
Having conversations
Outside of yourself, you’ll find
The words will come
To accept



What is it that you see in older men
The quench of insatiable want, I find
For wanting the better half of a wise conscience
Better known for to humor you, my love
Redefine yourself through the security, between encased struggle
Drawn from the richness of their rudimentary reserves you’re to measure by
Burgeoning rouse towards your mature peak appearing small
You can’t help it, dearest, to not rush past
The comfort in your young
Swollen with compliments
To your smart pride, considering the swift current hidden behind
Cherub cheeks, the often unseen attribute given hindsight
Hopeless bandwidth of one’s age urging reach at most, to
Know what you only don’t know, granted enough wit to seek settlement
In kind,
Not yet enough to precede the draws of the earth, still
Too much so to be still
And we haven’t been made still at all

Expression 1


Staring at her nails painted the color of steel
Like bullets on end, that has on occasion severed her better conscience
Despite her best efforts, against him
She says, “sometimes I want a write off, I was so young
Surely it was a disturbing love, but I can only determine
love nonetheless.”
But he never says anything back, thoughts flashing verbatim, drumming
The sounds of war that she had painted on, the color of proud obsidian glean
Instead, unworn by time, the grayed sentiments satin stained,
“But I can’t forgive you, you were my first love and
You broke my heart.”




She was all kinds of intelligent, I’m sure
At least, being in public eye wasn’t easy
After all, somehow all that remains of her is an obscure quote
I had already forgotten where I’d read about
Her titular style, enough to garner all sorts of
Questionable wrath, to them she replied,
“Whenever someone comments, it makes me think ‘I want to pull it tighter, make it higher;
It feels like falling in love each time I look in the mirror.’ ”
And maybe it was due to the false advertisement of her life, or even the lack thereof
Of my own questionable reconnaissance
I could never quite decide where on the spectrum that statement landed
Albeit crass or bold, for if I were a man in life
Would I have no doubt, doubly fallen in love with her


The Artist


“Is this what they mean,” she stares at the blank page before her,
“When they say only tortured artists can create.”
And as he trailed his finger down the trace of her back
Out went the stream of conscious that was her creation
Dug out by the assembly of emotions, intangible currency ran
Swiftly before she had known to remember, unfair exchanges
For words she meant to deliver instead
Before she had met him, as if there were no words to prescribe her
Not when one is happy and content, so she believes
She has alas ran out of words this way

Imperfect Love


“What you’re saying only exists in a perfect world. You know it doesn’t work that way.”
Refusing to pout, she only stared blankly in reply, “I know that.”
“So why do you buy into the belief? Why beguile yourself that way?”
With a sigh she confesses, “it’s not about the likelihood of coming true. I’ve read lots of book on people and it is probably a losing faith to invest into,”
Squaring her shoulders, she went on, “but I’d like to believe in the concept of unconditional love among people.”
A pause. “I’d just like to.”
He looked onward, stunned, not by her words, as he had heard them before
Yet stunned all the same by the imperceptible strength of will he saw
She possessed in love, ┬ábecause the fact was, she hadn’t given up on him.

A Lifelong Search


An embrace ought to be more than
The singing of our atoms pulling together
Vibrations in the air, often mistaken for a spark
A deep stare between dilated pupils suggests
Pivoting orbits whose axle chanced to align with yours,
With precision I cannot tell you true love apart from
A familiar anecdote you might have once heard,
You’ll know when you find it
Is what she said

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celeste lee cloud

writer & artist

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