Thursday, January 25, 2018

Family Vacation

Family Vacation

I am on a beach
I am in a poem
I write to you from the inside of it

On vacation it will be 3:30
and you will have done nothing
except for nap

and turn the bed into Beach, Jr.
with the sand you wore
and keep finding

A family is a nap
is a door we close to chaos
a quiet room not always quiet in a loud house

One night it came to me
as I listened from the balcony
The ocean is the world’s pulse

The beach will teach us
dishevelment and disorder
and how to hang onto light

Friday, January 12, 2018



Don’t count your chickens before they are hatched
and don’t count your kitchens if they are unlatched
and if you do count your unhatchlings call them eggs
and know that they are real as they doze in their shells
and if you count a dozen you can either have a feast
or twelve new pets or twelve porcelain water balloons
or a dozen marvels of biology and construction
built to shatter by chisel of innermost agitation 
Don’t count your mortifications to be or to come
but if you do search your pocket or pillowcase
and locate this card which I have placed there
for you my fellow fallible being It is embossed
With one finger feel the tiny skyline of its inscription
which reads Member of the Mere Mortals
since Birthday (Membership included with being born)

Tuesday, January 2, 2018

"One," by Dunja Jung

"One," by Dunja Jung

Monday, January 1, 2018



Candle rising to its feet
fed by cake of snow
and calendar Pioneer
numeral Glyph of self
Bookmark to place
within memory Here
the first smile Here
the first step First
word First school First
remembered loneliness
First good kiss One
a visitation A thumb
Freshly downed arrow
A lamppost to circle
If all else goes to crumb
look at this pillar this
elevator shaft with open
doors Read the plaque
that says You invented
a new way to invite air
into body You were bark
trunk birdhouse bird worm
You are flight You are
flying Here is the place
you whispernamed Liftoff

Thursday, December 21, 2017

How to make a vortex

Place a clock on a shelf for a least two weeks

Look at the clock and trust that it knows time

Allow life to continue, forget about the clock but continue to glance its way: make sandwiches, fill glasses with water, scatter and gather toys

One night, remove the clock

You will find yourself turning your head and searching for the time
The clock wants to get back up on the shelf but is locked in the closet
Now the missing clock wants your gaze

The Storialist. All rights reserved. © Maira Gall.