Photo by Alex Zarate on Unsplash

The hawk comes every day now.
He swept across my vision that first time
seizing my attention like unwary prey
landed just outside the window
and hunched down to stare at me.
I have seen eagles up close
crows, cormorants, herons
all unmistakably lovely
but this was different.


Photo by Author

Rain falls in tireless ribbons
drifting down from a silver sky
like wet tinsel on a sodden tree.
The cold hides inside my clothing
clings to my skin in thin, icy layers
draws its fingers at last into my bones.
And yet I cannot stop looking
cannot help but raise my face to the mist
for a last kiss before going indoors.
There I will throw more wood on the fire
and huddle close enough to combust.


Photo by Joel Filipe on Unsplash

There are two kinds of poets.
One moves through the world collecting words
like a woman placing gems into a reed basket.
Words that burn and cool
words that soar and sink
that lift the spirit or strangle the breath.
Words come from everywhere:
the rails of train stations in rural India
a coil of sunlight through wine held to a lover’s lips
the clean wound left in that lover’s absence.
She molds these words like clay
and places the gems carefully, to catch the light.


Author Photo

My heart is rain-soaked
sorrow-filled
sodden to overflowing.
It fills me to bursting and leaks
from every pore
until I could water the world with it.


Photo by Author

Surely we weren’t meant
to walk alone.
These days I force myself outdoors
without picking up a leash
without pocketfuls of treats
or a ball in hand.
I scarcely know how to move
my hands fall at my sides
foolish empty things.


Doorways. Photo by Author.

I step out into dusk after a difficult day
spent wrestling demons indoors.
Wind shushes in the treetops
and something heavy lifts off my shoulders.
Tall spirits walk beside me in the dark
I can’t explain how I know this
but if you were here you would feel them too.


Photo by Carlos Kenobi on Unsplash

Some days being alive
is harder than others.
Today a cloudbank sat on my chest
weighed me down
pulled me under.
Restless, I tried for breath
came up with only bubbles:
not enough for my blood
that grows richer by the day.


Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash

We go out into the cold
and black of a new-moon night
climbing down slick boulders
to feel our way toward the sea,
three women seeking treasure.
We are blind except for the lamps
arrowing through curtains of fog
we make with our breath.
We follow instinct toward the water’s edge
which has receded so far
we cannot reach it.
The smell of her, though: brine
and blood, seaweed and salt
tells us Ocean is near. She
mirrors our own scent and soul
and we cannot steal from her
without stealing from ourselves.


A Brief Meditation on Pleasure

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

My body is a beehive
humming from root to crown
filled with the nectar of desire
its borders laced in sacred geometry.

Kara B. Imle

Memoirist. Poet. SourcePoint practitioner and Rolfer. Living on a small island off the western edge of sanity.

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