Walter Bjorkman is a writer, poet and photographer from Brooklyn, NY now residing in the mountains of Pennsylvania.
His poems and short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in issues of Scrambler, Poets & Artists, O&S, Wilderness House Literary Review, A-Minor, Blue Print Review, Metazen, Dark Chaos, OCHO and MiPoesias. His collection of short stories, Elsie's World, was published in January 2011. He is Associate Editor of THRUSH Poetry Journal.
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night approaches
as we sit crowded, nothing surrounds
us. the dusk rooster crows, fireflies
begin their upward spirals. no walls
in this meadow are seen, touched
or imagined - only skies we didn't love
resentment we didn't lose.
black voles skitter into a garden tangle
leaving scents of abandonment, tastes
of bitter tea. you wanted to dance
inside a painting by van gogh
not weep inside a munch. no,
I will not suffer - it is too mild a fate
for my offspring. my mother bore me
in the botanicals, your father tore you
from the sea. the brine of your brow
withers me to dust.
us. the dusk rooster crows, fireflies
begin their upward spirals. no walls
in this meadow are seen, touched
or imagined - only skies we didn't love
resentment we didn't lose.
black voles skitter into a garden tangle
leaving scents of abandonment, tastes
of bitter tea. you wanted to dance
inside a painting by van gogh
not weep inside a munch. no,
I will not suffer - it is too mild a fate
for my offspring. my mother bore me
in the botanicals, your father tore you
from the sea. the brine of your brow
withers me to dust.