young joints, or a sonnet for someone i think i know
her graceful hand, more fragile than the rain,
like a call to the angry heavens above,
more melancholy than an artist's pain,
holds soft. yet tightly. onto twisted love.
her nails are crescents like the hiding moon,
her thin fingers are lavender and thyme,
with joints that know no work and are immune
to this mad world's evil prime-time war-crimes.
she cages all her laughter in her heart,
keeps a sophisticated look always,
but palms tell truths when lips don't ever part;
those hands don't have to beg or even pray.
un-calloused, innocent and fortunate:
she bangs her fists in nonsense and regret.
the air is thick with the
silly malaise of a drunken honeybee.
i could sleep another decade,
but i sit with gnats,
waiting to be impressed.
the field buzzes with silence
as i lie among sun-bleached bones
of cattle and tractors.
the morning's fire
appears over the hills,
redder than the clay stains on my feet.
the barn almost splinters,
the ground almost splits,
and i almost laugh.
life has never been so still.
a mockingbird cries
a song i've heard before,
and i sink into earth,
filled with the wild blue of morning.
nearby, a dandelion looks up,
searching for a face in the sky.
for my mother
so now you fly.
do not be afraid,
lovely in green and spirit.
it is your turn to smile.
your hand traces mine,
filling my joints and fingertips
with lavender and a sense
of yesterday. be as you are:
beautiful. fill yourself
with deserved love.
what a brilliant product
of bluegrass and shakespeare.
don't hide behind those eyes;
sing to St. Cecelia
off the ancient cliffs of a new land.
you always did dance unashamedly.
The unanimous Declaration (a found poem)
by their Hands
in the Course of human Events.
the Opinions of Mankind
their Safety and Happiness
the patient Sufferance of
a candid World.
become the Executioners
of their Friends and Brethren,
or fall themselves.
a decent Respect,
by their Hands.
for the public Good.
Source: The Declaration of Independence: Action of Second Continental Congress, July 4, 1776
Rose Dallimore was born in New York City to two professional actors, and after growing up with intelligent and artistic people, she loves creative energy, arts, and poetry. She moved to Chattanooga in 2010, and currently attends Baylor School, which she loves. Rose hopes to go into international political relations and economic policy in the future and believes in the importance of a few good words in the pursuit of change.