In the evening we walk backwards
To nowhere in particular
Collecting shoe stories.

Avenues and alleys blind
Old haunts that no one wants
They remain like a stalker.

Shoes of patent leather pounded
Pavements blister bloody red
Small rocks our shoes collected.
Full of painful pebbles

Tripping and stumbling,
Treading and re-treading.
Regretful and remembering,
Walk right back to the beginning.
Walking backwards all evening
Collecting the Shoe stories.

When the entire mug awash
with floating leavings
by golly by gosh,
sipping said herbal brew
analogous challenge
to eat spaghetti squash
with one chopstick.

Earlier yesterday February twenty fourth
two thousand twenty four
found yours truly (me)
blithely consuming delicious
La COLOMBE DOUBLE LATTE
cold iced latte, complete
with a frothy layer
of milk and a touch of sugar.

Lower gastrointestinal war civil
immediately declared
because yours truly beleaguered
by lactose intolerance.

"Where are we going?" his young daughter asked.

"To cheer up some of my friends," he replied.

"They seem to be a lot of work for you," she offered with concern.

"Yes," he said, “You’re right. The very best kind of work."

studious skinny scruffy scribe

My utmost humblest apology
for inducing the following
cerebral calisthenics upon your cranium,
but the cost of friendship
with yours truly
(me – a foo fighting,
eagle eyed, beatle browed, beastie boy
christened Matthew Scott Harris)
doth newt come
like some hootie and the blowfish
super tramping
cheap trick linkedin to
wings at the reo speed wagon
spinning zz top soundcloud.

Sometimes I think poetry is
the time you first learned to skip
a rock across a glassy lake.
It touched the water five, maybe six times
before sinking below the surface.

You looked forever for the perfect one
to toss. Even though forever is where
the stone came from and returned to.

I don’t know for certain
all the places poetry can be found,
but if it lets me come back to these things
I’ll willingly continue the beautiful search.

You are a huge O mouth
Open and yawning like a sink hole
Yelling absurd answers to simple questions
Your breath a cloud of steam
That freezes in the night air
To those who talk but never think
An exhausting O mouth eating oxygen
Eating and eating
Emitting opinions

The tongue in perpetual motion
The jawbone still chattering
Your mouth can run marathons
Silenced into a stupor
I sit here and say nothing
Pretending to listen

Paris
Written by Kelly Ann Wilson

Have you lived a life that’s good?
Have you helped somebody?
Have you chased your dream?
Have you healed?
Have you fallen in love?
Have you rescued a dog?
Have you seen Paris?

For those who answered no, don’t fret.
If you’re reading this right now,
Then you still have the chance.

I hope you take it.

Written February 20, 2024
© 2024 Kelly Ann Wilson

(alternately titled GENESIS RESPLENDENT)

No matter the calendrical/official onset of vernal equinox takes places Tuesday, Mar 19, 2024 and transpires until Thursday, Jun 20, 2024, an intimation sensed (predicated on above average temperatures for February 21st, 2024) that season of blooming plants will override any assertion of Old Man Winter.

I am a beta test
a thin-skinned receptor
a hypothesis; flawed
an occupational hazard.
I see my reflection in you
a placebo
a fun-house mirror
a retaining wall.
Precursive, sub-syndromal
vitamin-enriched
hypothetical as a gesture
an aperture lens, a fixture,
a past-due date.

Wildflowers
Written by Kelly Ann Wilson

I think people get lost sometimes
Even with all of their brilliant light

But I’ll hold onto the you I know
Through all of space and all of time

And women, we are so smart and strong
And capable

And I see that you can make it through
All on your own

So, I’ll just be there waiting
I’ll be the first to tell my old friend, hello

May you find yourself again
Where the wildflowers grow

Written February 18, 2024
© 2024 Kelly Ann Wilson