It is not broken.
I am not broken.
I am purple, and green, and red.
I am black and blue.

I am still here,
in certain lights more present than others.

A walking bruise.
When you touch me,
I am warm.

My blood is flowing–
even though my center is off.

The hurt is there still;
only. if. you. press.

I can conceal it, this ache of mine
—my bruised being

Adorn it with ornaments and ointments.
Remembering that nothing is opaque
and just,
let me heal.

Rainy Day Poem

The gray color outside of my window,
accompanied by the quiet spatters of raindrops,
lets the day stretch into quiet nourishment of ideas.
A pile of blankets spread out as a cat purrs,
with soft piano notes twinkling the air in the background,
as the ground and clouds meet outside.

Water washes away…
to help pave way to make
constantly encouraging rebirth

Rainy days are my own personal excuse
to stay inside & contemplate,
transform water & grounds to a cup of coffee,
warming my ideas,
coloring my world with thoughts, words & fluidity.

Thoughts mean…
potential, growth & contemplation
to help carve a way to action, love & betterment,
continually encouraging a wave of creation.

A storm happens every so often, outside my window
letting my thoughts match the weather

I have learned that a storm within myself is a sign
of the changes I wish to make.
In order to let my thoughts become my actions,
I must water them with splatters of acknowledgment–
letting them take root, in my new life.

Musings in the Maples

Written on 9/18, after a road-trip from St Albans, Vermont back to the Capitol Region of New York.

Musings in the Maples
by mk hubbard

I love that the whole state seems to bleed syrup
instead of blood
— roots dive deep into the Earth, & maples are very strong.
The people there view the golden liquid as the nectar of life,
replacing other golds, like honey & precious metal.

The trees are lined with taps, connecting forests together,
a web of dependence on the sugary substance that oozes from their cores.
The farmlands are large, and double yellow lined roads with their higher speed limits, still wind & curve forcing you to slow down,
to make you look around.

Like the maple liquid itself, the drips of sweetness come at their own time, as you travel further & further North…

The mountain top with its trees changing in drips to fall foliage as the sun sets over them, reminds you of the snow to come–
And the ghost of chairlifts swing in the summer heat, waiting to be filled with people, excited for another sugary substance, although this time a powder.
As the Moon rises over the trees, it illuminates the change in a sadder way than the sun does– reminding you that seasons changing have nothing to do with the whims of what we as humans want, but what the Earth demands.

Small Sweet Nothings

Would you like to come to Target with me?
Do you want a cup of coffee before work?
Will you unlock the door for me when I get home?

beats the answer

Would you want to take a drive?
Do you like my haircut?
Will you feed the cats for me?

beats the answer

Would you like to tell me about your day?
Do you want to hold my hand?
Will you hold me close?

beats the answer


A Response in Poem Form

Fault – by morgan

Faults in the Earth’s Crusts were predestined.
Normal. Reverse. Strike-Slip.
They form due to movement that cannot be stopped,
Puzzle pieces re-aligning.

Faults turn into movement
creating unavoidable uproar—
Yet to be living is to be in motion
and we are all in this circle together…

So why is it humans find fault in others as a
That word instead translates an image of never again.
Cast far into the universe—out of sight.

Instead, we must learn how to view our faults as our own versions of
Reverse the thought of failures as always being shame.
Normal is created — it is up to you to define.
Strike against remaining stagnant.

Slip is the sound the rejection makes, as it rolls off you.
Excess removed.

If whole continents can reshape
and we ourselves contain multitudes & altitudes,
then we can comb through the remains of our earthquakes to find
Small treasures of wisdom.

We must learn from our inevitable.

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**This poem was written in response to the line “So it goes.” as it appears in Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut**