On becoming a poet
My writer self was reborn about a year and half ago, when I began penning stories from the dark times during my years of alcohol abuse. I had been free from addiction for two years, and the words were screaming for release.
Hello. My name is Vixen Lea and I have been Razzle-Dazzle for 1000 days.
January 7, 2018 is the day that I made the decision to quit drinking.
It seems like such a small thing when you look at the words of it: I Decided to Quit Drinking. Like I just made a decision and then that was that and all was good in…
A haiku series on fatherhood
him following you —
silhouette in miniature
Peter Pan’s shadow
a puppy dog tail
bounding behind your long lope
he wags, skips, and smiles
bones stretch to reach you
so that one day he may help
you hold up the sky
Vixen Lea is the pen name for Skye Nicholson…
A poem of lucidity
The vines on my front porch
make shadow puppets in the street light,
leaning in with pinky-swears and giggles.
They are not afraid to touch each other.
I love how fog forces us
to sit with what is right in front of our faces.
Today I want to be the…
A prose poem of belated radiance
Caught in a 3 by 5 glossy — I can’t reach her — Windex-wipe streaks off those glassy eyes — she’s a polly in someone else’s pocket — stitched up in self-defense — drunk off fireball and too many shots of inconsequence — she’s dizzy,
wondering why the world isn’t…
A poem of perambulation
Cupping hands against the stream,
skidding toes on the sky —
We are always trying to slow time.
Today I stop and sit with the four sisters
as they stand guard at the curve of a muddy bank;
The contrary one leans away from the others
craning her neck as if searching
for something…
A poem of connection
for Deborah
You may want to put on your glasses for this;
(although its hard for me to think of you as pushing 60)
you know that magnet you always kept on your fridge?
“If you’re going through Hell, keep going!” …
A poem of termination
a half-marathon of years
since you settled in the lining of my guts
staked claim in that village of villi —
the issue in my tissues
the lesson never learned, but wait
perhaps I give you too much credit —
you were just a fraction
of the fractal that kept repeating…
A poem of three scenes, Act I
I blink awake
to Seussian dystopia
The very last Truffula Tree of them all!
Haven’t you heard?
Haven’t you heard?
Nah, girl,
my monitor is turned off —
fell asleep to the national anthem
and my dreams went static.
Today I woke without a womb —
walked to the woods
looking…
