In addition to prose, Kristen also writes poetry.
My mind swims with thoughts of velvety cake.
Taking a bite, blood specks dribble down my chest
And over my heart. The life we have crumbles,
Before my plate. Can it be too late for us and our children?
No, I won’t think of me, or the us of lore, but only of cake –
Sweet, salty, and for me – sadly cheerless.
The Love Path
Free of tumult.
Majestically Green, it
Slowly darkens my tender soul.
Obsession present with seductive switch.
Ablaze or absent rises bitter foe.
Demanding drug, the lucence calls, “Bewitch
The slave!” I moan, “Can light be hopeless woe?”
The life of matter slips through porous speech
Of worthless words. I cast aside and look
Away. My self denied the rights of peace.
“I am unfettered, loose…” the doctor’s hook
Has fleeting cover. Caught, I need to clutch
I must remain aloof. Enchanter wins.
Disorder demons manage trigger touch.
I flip; I slipped by flipping. Chant chagrined
My feeble fling at normal. Beacon fixed.
Compulsion thrives, my pointless try eclipsed.
Ob/ses/sion pres/ent with se/duc/tive switch. a
A/blaze or ab/sent ris/es bit/ter foe. b
De/mand/ing drug, the lu/cence calls, “Be/witch a
The slave!” I moan, “Can light be hope/less woe?” b
The life of mat/ter slips through po/rous speech c
Of worth/less words. I cast a/side and look d
A/way. My self de/nied the rights of peace. c
“I am un/fet/tered, loose…” the doc/tor’s hook d
Has fleet/ing cov/er. Caught, I need to clutch e
I must re/main a/loof. En/chant/er wins. f
Dis/or/der de/mons man/age trig/ger touch. e
I flip; I slipped by flipp/ing. Chant cha/grined f
My fee/ble fling at nor/mal. Bea/con fixed. g
Com/pul/sion thrives, my point/less try e/clipsed. g
A literary tale connected by a surname,
A surname of four beings united.
United together in more than letters,
Letters arranged and tragic lives combined;
Combined to create this story.
This story begins with a Cyclops, Bronte.
Bronte is part of brothers three,
Three Titan children victorious in a battle.
A battle won with weapons forged.
Forged beneath a smoldering volcano.
Volcano belches flume and fire.
Fire rises from a Sicilian mountain.
Mountain forever contains Bronte’s swords;
Swords fashioned into lasting weapon –
Weapon more mighty than a pen.
A Pen moves across holy, paper altar,
Altar of pastor father, poor and desolate.
Desolate despair over cyclical family deaths.
Deaths shutting out mortality, but for breath –
Breath of fire into fictitious giants – sisters.
Sisters: Charlotte, Emily and Anne, bonded.
Bonded with poverty’s dearth, but rich in words.
Words birthed from a need to escape.
Escape into luminous illusions created.
Created for our lasting amusement.