Forest

Change Little By Thea Clarkberg From an objective standpoint, Reality is subjective. You may be able to ceaselessly label an object or an atom or a particle or energy but at the end of the day, I can come up with another Facet to the gem of Reality. Tell me all your complicated theorems- I’d love to hear them- But at the quantum level, one particle can have two locations at the same time, If you label it by its spin. It’s called “wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey.... stuff.” Reality can never be quantified as one or the other, but rather as a choice between many. A choice to look where you step,     a choice to turn a blind eye. A choice to listen to the silence,     a choice to be deaf to the cries of a child. A choice to feel pain,     a  choice to stiffen and become rigid to the wind of life against your skin. A choice to taste pure sweet water,     a choice to drown in the cloying sweetness of wine. ...

Wicked - some brief excerpts below By Thea Clarkberg They called us wicked and burned us at the stake. The stubborn ones, the “contentious” ones. The clever ones, The lonely ones. They called us wicked. The independent ones- Unmarried, Growing a garden of herbs. Walking alone at night, under the moonlight. They called us wicked. She forgot her place in the patriarchy, just for a little breath of power, and they called her Wicked. Back to the beginning. Back to a golden morning in April... Easter morning. The maple trees had all started to bloom. I was born at home, in the room that my mother still sleeps in. My mother tells me that When I was born, I opened my eyes, and Looked around the room Like I owned it. Elementary school. I was this little girl with blond pigtails who refused to wear pajamas and insisted on wearing a striped turtle neck and a pink corduroy dress for my school picture- the picture from kindergarten, where I have a black eye. So. Elementary school. Top of the ...

This is How I Survive A slithering sickly rattle Of cockroach chitin on stone Wet stale dungeon darkness Drips Echo I lay my golden hair back into Black gritty grime and the strands clump together, wet. Black spreads through my jeans like Ink in a glass of water. I let their bodies touch mine, Cold cockroach wings against my skin I close my eyes and feel them on my face, my lips. And I give my warmth freely, a release of breath, For I trust in my love of a tree. Clear water, white tile Ink in a glass in rewind Black swirls away And the water glows pearly With the light of the evening sun. I am still Still Falling in love takes time. Falling in love takes time. The last warm breath of the dying sun is here still As my pink lips kiss your beloved grey wood. The sunlight that lit up your new green leaves       And kissed my upturned face Is gone now. The moon stretches your arms into shadows That reach for me, silently, ...