THE PARAGON JOURNAL BLOG 

November 12, 2017

Sugar cube boats

turn to the colour of the oceans

and rot at the bottom of their china seas,

and the sun soaks in saffron threads,

all it touches

going down.

Golden.

Lost;

the roof line soon invades the ache

of the losing light, sitting here,

circling the coffee suds,

recording t...

November 11, 2017

We would stand against the oak tree’s lizard skin,

away from the porch,

weather bronze flakes on our palms.

The grey flecks of ashen coke sky,

matching paper print on kitchen tops,

ironed shirts of collar with dried bubble soap suds pops.

Out of our pregnant thoughts

our live...

November 10, 2017

When the light comes 

with a winter morning,

when even the evergreens hold their breath,

and the sugar kicks wait

while the young are sleeping,

    that light,

        pouring in,

in stop motion ice melting,

lowering the shadows into the...

November 9, 2017

Even the crows are bored with today.

The park benches never lost their damp,

like timbers of sunken ships 

stacked against the tarmac paths.

Lunch time doesn't even break

the everything of silence, 

a quietness of a day not paying attention.

The day should have just stayed in...

November 8, 2017

Twilight,

is a time you should always spend with your lover.

The moments,

when time travel is possible.

When the frog belly gold

gunned on the walls of the forest,

pull your recall and complaint

into the warmness,

while there is still colour to the silhouettes.

Otherwise the ey...

November 7, 2017

We missed the first frosts,

in warm unmade beds.

That scent was us.

The sun was low

and in the room with us all day.

Over the arms of chairs,

agains the walls,

it’s warmth was the shape of your back.

Sleeked around us the afternoon,

and walked out the door by four.

Us, stray dog...

November 6, 2017

After a driest day blue,

          The iodine smear.

Low and seen with rolling eyes.

The long grass could be called weeds

of hiding our sin.

Seeing the crows feet of the pumpkin

through the river trees,

my Tycho gasps,

the old man’s eyes...

November 5, 2017

There is the wonder,

in the anxiety of the starlings.

Oiled,

and starved.

How beauty

can fall out of something,

how their shiver made a whale.

A sky-dance 

of a fattening shadow.

Round and full,

stretching and curved.

They are the pitch and duration,

on a stave,

of the supersonic c...

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ISSN 2470-3834 (online)

ISSN 2470-7775 (print)