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black poetry

la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver
seule
il y a une heure du repos paisible
basculé dans le berceau du profond
c'est la chanson de la jeunesse
beau
bonne femme
laissez le bel unsaid de mots
fleurs des bébés
du soleil ni des étoiles
dépassement par les murs blottis et laids
les drowses pâles de jour sur l'occidental trempent
j'ai entendu qu'une certaine princesse
du plancher au plafond

 



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  • The Year in Review (Dartmouth Review)
  • Big City - New York Times
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  • Inspiring woman writes of depression - Geelong Advertiser
  • Local author seeks to help others find purpose (Lake Houston Sentinel)
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  • Family activities this week -- Father's Day edition - Baltimore Sun
 

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