Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on March 12, 2018 by Plathinson

They used to be
just whispers—
flies in his stale
scrambled eggs,
hardly served
on the table
every morning
at breakfast.

Tales were stories
only told when
he retired
for the night.
Whoever would
want a corpse
for an audience?
Ah, Phobetor!

she started

What seemed like
mere silence
turned up so loud,
transforming a vibration
into different frequencies
anyone could listen to

© Gheeneil



Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on January 30, 2018 by Plathinson

I soar high on imaginary wings
and grab hold of the rope that pulls me.
Cob webs are dusted off
from where the hourglass is thrown.
Gone is the voice, but the echo lives on—
So I have believed.

After one thousand eight hundred twenty five days
in detention, where I gave birth to indecision,
I break a wall down
with my bare hands and a broken wing
So I have thought I’m freed.

Day and night, I take flight
listening to the sound that resonates
in memory, I seek homage in your words;
Though they are no longer mine,
the amber skies know
they once were.

© Gheeneil


Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on November 25, 2017 by Plathinson

One foot after the other:
a quiet saunter toward the splashing waves
where salt smells memory,
pungent to taste.

In moments when
she is too weak to fly,
beneath her sole,
the sand murmurs the sound
to the part of her thoughts
where a wing left broken.

Into her fortress,
she moves her feet fast,
making light yet loud footfalls,
teasing the ocean to come get her.

And as she rows
against the wind and tides
that force her to shore,
she is home.

© Gheeneil



Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on October 28, 2017 by Plathinson

Oh, little Allison,
I lost your photographs,
but I saw your smile
in the looking glass—
your innocence was beautiful
even if it had aged.
I had worn the shoes you wore
and though my feet grew
a little bigger each time,
they should’ve still fit.

© Gheeneil



Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on October 21, 2017 by Plathinson

You draw lines inside you—
a triangle; a square; a pentagon.
And when you feel bored
with your polygon, you spin around
an axis, keeping your possession.

© Gheeneil



Posted in My Poetry with tags , , , on September 28, 2017 by Plathinson

They said
you could be
any number:

a prime, an integer,
the most famous irrational Pi,
or an imaginary—

such mystery!

at some point,
you remained concealed
after a number line
stretched farther out
to the left and right,
could a Cartesian plane
take me to where
you’d possibly be?

in Arithmetic,
a division by zero?

© Gheeneil



Posted in News with tags , , , , on June 8, 2017 by Plathinson

It is quite rare to get a piece of work accepted and, at the same time, be able to help support a noble cause. One Person’s Trash journal’s inaugural issue features literary works which theme revolves around homelessness. The print copies are now available and are distributed among members of Tacoma’s homeless community. Proceeds go to the sellers. Read full details here.

Let’s join Jacob Nau and his team realize an objective. Please grab your copies now!