Forest

  Warm Hands By Thea Clarkberg In the dark of night, Fingertips on a cold glass pane. Chills the tips, warms the glass, only just. 20 floors up, I look out into the gaping void beneath me, a hellish blast of screeching sirens and glaring neon lights. Aloft above it all, this hardened world of glass and steel. I rest my forehead against these ancient grains of sand and search and search for the hands that shaped them into crystal ice. I find none. I ache for just a hint of breath, of warmth, of animal scent. I bang my head into this barrier, like a goldfish in a little bowl. I walk through structures meant to hold meaning— policies, procedures, portals— but all I feel is cold. I am met by signs, not people. By sentences without fingerprints. By answers that answer nothing. They sand off the edges of individual identity in favor of rules and repeatability. I scream into the system, but it does not echo. It absorbs. Intention is often the first thing to vanish. Someone may have poured...

States of Flow By Thea Clarkberg The fog sits heavy in my head, Ideas drift, half-formed, then dead. To condense the haze, I seek a spark, A focused flame within the dark. A broken mirror catches light Scatters it, sharp and bright. My thoughts reflect in every shard Too many voices, all holds unbarred. When thoughts flood in, like heaven’s rain, Ideas pour, too rich to tame. I cast a net, I raise my cup But always, it’s too much to hold up. The final drops, reluctant, fall No stream, no surge, no force at all. I lie there still, the world upright But I am flat and out of fight. I’ve chased the rush, endured the slow, But never reached laminar flow. Not sharp, not loud, not fast or bright Just steady motion, clear and right. The stillness always slips away— A peace I touch, but cannot stay. -- This poem was created in collaboration with AI. While the themes, structure, and voice were created by the human author, some phrasing, rhyme, and stylistic suggestions were supported through AI ...

  The Patience of a Tree By Thea Clarkberg Two paths diverged beneath my feet— One paved, and one muddy, off the beat. I left the cars and bustling street To find a stream, a would-be retreat. Its waters were choked with plastic and waste, Ignored by those who walked on in haste. Among the muck, an egret white Stood still, a fragile, ghostly sight. It flew away as I drew near, Its instinct sharp, its path so clear. What was that sickly sweetness in the air? The stench of death was everywhere. I saw ahead a wolf or dog, hard to tell, Its teeth gleaming white in a sunken shell. I passed it by and did not stay, But the path just stopped and fell away. Some draft of a park the city had planned— Now swallowed up by brambled land. I stood where trail met thorn and stone, Staring at trash the world disowned. The highway thundered just overhead, While the water below ran thick and dead. Oh world, I cried, what have we done? We’ve scorched the soil and blocked the sun. We pass each other, m...

The Race You see a leaking pipe, and know— Though slow, each drop begins the flow Of gallons lost to time and rust, A wound disguised beneath the crust. Each bead a gem, with breath inside, As if the water, too, has pride. Not just a leak, but something more— An ocean waiting at the door. You watch the cars in silence pass, A humming stream of steel and glass— That sterile hum, so clean, precise, Conceals the cost beneath the ice. You hear the glaciers crack and slide, And smell the gas the engines hide, You taste the burn, you feel the cost— And know how much the world has lost. You are attune to the song of the world, But the notes arrive twisted, tangled, and swirled. The air you breathe smells sharp with fear, You see beneath the gilded veneer. You walk the world and feel the spin, Each breath you take—a step, a sin. You search the sky for what to bring, To make a place where spring birds sing. You see it then, with eyes grown wide— The grass is greener on the other side. You tear ...