Thursday, March 10, 2011



Onward. Forward. Foe-word.
Toward, toe by toe,
word by word.

In spite of. Because of. Creep,
amoeba-like, stretch
that pseudopod,

you will follow your own body,
eating ground you cross.
Grind it up,

rinds of exit signs, greener than
the grass is now or ever
will be.

Hunger tells you where to go,
what to take in. What you
are taken

with, who you took away
and are taking with
you, even now,

hauled up beside you, at your
bedside. We slide onward,
on words inside

our limbs that clamber over
land, prodding at clods
of earth

as we move. A fleshed out
cloud, a flash of mouth
full, talking.


  1. What I find interesting in the poem is the cadence, which seems to press down to keep from going forward. It may be because of the alliteration. I like the effect, the lengthening out.

  2. I need to read this over several times but when I read forward in my head I heard an army sargent yell out FOE--Ward! Have a great day Hannah . xo

  3. Eeek. This one reminded me of a snake slithering along. The image is creepy too.

  4. as what susan said
    and . . .

    it's like reaching
    into a bag of misc.
    up to your shoulder
    i like it, the poem, that is.

    it is an exploration:
    to hop into words
    and feel around to see
    what you can find.

  5. Without even looking at the art (I haven't yet!), your poem speaks in ways paint can't, reaches deep, as in,

    "Grind it up,

    rinds of exit signs, greener than
    the grass is now or ever
    will be."

    I love your internal rhyme (forget the more proper term) of "grind" and "rind," and, as always, your telling soul.

    (PS: I attended a local poetry reading and open mic night earlier this week and shared a few poems, made me think of all my many blog poet friends, and I longed for one night for us all to gather and speak.)


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