Hour 9: The Great Gatsby

The Great Gatsby

The shape of restlessness

Sparkling in the night

Bated breath

Your love potion

Is pure poison

Your face, your ache

is familiar


Her well-loved eyes

A thin red circle

Where your heart used to be

In its stead, 

A pale gold odor

What a grotesque thing

Dear Jay,

What were you thinking?

Hour 7: Drag


Bluegrass reminds me of a shit town

Worse than dirt

You can drag your dreams up north on a bus

They won’t come back

From a place so shattered


It’s lonely out there once you hit the road

The stars look on and the trees pass in the windows,

But they all seem to live in the past

You can drag your hope around America

It won’t come back


Love lives in my heart like a mad dog

Trying to get out and

Who would you loose it on,

Wish it on,

When you know it won’t let go?

You can drag your love by the throat

It won’t love you back

Hour 6: Snake and Mouse

Snake and Mouse

Eyelid slide, shutter click

Bristle of fur, whisker twitch

A furious beat, a tiny heart

A drum, a time piece, with no escapement.


All the while, scales of gold

Moving, articulated, slow

A calculation, a maneuver

Black-eyed, dead-eyed, taught.


Inevitable darkness falls,

A being’s true nature calls

contraction, constriction,

A gentle slide to oblivion.

Hour 5: The Same Sea

The Same Sea

I climb down to the water

Where paper rains into the sea

The same sea that, when I sleep,

Has a song I can sing along to

The same sea that, when I sleep,

Will tangle me if I step into her surf,

Eroding the sand out from under me.

She always threatening to drown me.

Hour 4: Salvation


Art can make a man go mad

Madness can make a man go blind

And art can be his salvation


My dad told me about the Starry Night

How Vincent cut off his own ear

Art can make a man go mad


He taught me using vinyl records

Do you know what this song is about?

And art can be his salvation


In our little living room, I listened

to the lessons of song, and learned

Art can make a man go mad


A man gets lost, full of histories

Dad tinkered with his guitar

And art can be his salvation


And you, my father, there on a starry night,

Music linked you and me to all the stories

Art can make a man go mad

And art can be his salvation

Hour 3: A Walk

A Walk

Nasturtium creeping in the hedge

Blackberry flowers promising fruit

Ivy, green and waxy tangles

I smell the water and the blue eucalyptus

I note the speed of swallows

Sap shining in the sun

Bougainvillea and wild rose falling

Hop-scotch and foxglove inviting

Great bee with glass wings, warming

If this was all there was

Would I be happy all the time?

Hour 2: Bubbles


Tiny hands and lit up faces craning skyward

The green of summer surrounds

And the bubbles float,

the oil slick of their skin an iridescent silk,

barely there.


Dancing eyes follow them

Soft arms reach for them

The glassy creatures bumble, and baby smiles conceive

Impossible fragility.

They gasp in delight.

Hour 1: Lost, Looking In

Lost, Looking In

I am lost, looking in

Wandering the circle of a cup and saucer

I am lost, looking in

Pacing the perimeter of a brick house

I am lost, looking in

Fading in the mirror every morning

I am lost, looking in

The portal of a photograph for old truths

I am lost, looking in

The house full of people is empty

I am lost, looking in

Flickering in the windows of a train

Rose Mars

Rose Mars first saw poetry at the age of 6, and began writing at the age of 7.  She is a self-taught writer, whose main emphasis is poetry, though she aspires to be a competent writer of stories…someday.  Rose Mars has completed two collections  of poetry, and self-published one of them, titled A Body of Water.  Literary influences include Sylvia Plath, Pablo Neruda, Arundhati Roy, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.  Rose Mars likes to mix writing with music and considers popular music as part of the modern history of poetry.  She especially enjoys and takes inspiration from Tori Amos, Kate Bush, Elbow, and Radiohead.  For Rose Mars, art is the lifeline, and poetry is something she was meant to do.  Without it, life feels empty.

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