Out of cupped hands
little girls spill laughter in spangles
down gutters grated with silver
and blood.
And boys with nervous thumbs,
arms spread like tattered sails,
slip from cliff edges
and like cormorants
dive into a world’s dark
and the sounds of chewing.
Grandmothers watch,
traumatized, their eyes,
at last luminous
see what they cannot speak
across the void.
And Grandfathers,
fingers busy with beads,
sniff up sun and wish
their wishes had legs
like buffaloes.


About Blake Steele

I am a poet, writer, workshop leader, recording artist... half monk, half pirate, passionate for Life and Love to triumph in the world. I'm American by birth, but am living in Sweden for a while: writing, growing, deepening with amazing, open-hearted people, as well as developing Wild Words Creative Writing Classes and Wild Souls Workshops around the world.
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