Todd Rokholm

my art is unfinished pages. a molt of feathers from a dream of flight. #micropoetry

I'd rather hide, in early morning teas and lily-white warmth. I haven't spoken in what seems a thousand years, nor you to me, but there is that unpronounced tether, that wink between our hearts, that busys the space between us, with conversation.

she was in the west; rising as my sun set, looking forward to a gentle wash of rain, as I soaked in the flooded aftermath. #poetry

anybody left?

Do you remember when you joined X? I do! #MyXAnniversary

just before it rains the grey and the green. my neck is craned and skin dry enough in anticipation. there will be that first drop and I'll remember love.

the intellects and debaters; societies long of throat and moist urgent tongue, dead and memed, cemented boots, forgotten in the dark's deep. there are stiff boots upon the cracked road. they go left, they go right. and on not even the sun's departure can they agree..

a happy Father's day for those who despite the challenges manage a patient smile.

you had something that you miss. simple words to lay upon her skin. an instinct to want nothing but the fullness of her lips..

I remember Marla, and Jeff, Stephanie and a couple of Brian's. There was a gardener, And a red-haired girl, and of course a mad queen. There was poetry and there was community. How I miss it. #fieryverse

there is wind and there is the swaying of branches. there is the stained glass of leaves and the cathedral of yesterday.

I can't write like that anymore. a few drinks and all I can do is remember.

what is more terrifying than the blank page? fearing the words in breach, agonizing in labor, and nothing to crown the page..

seems I'm walking toward it; the stitch still tugs at my lips. nonetheless it still comes and I've no greeting prepared.

still, with broken webs, across the floor, creeping, creeping, feeling the spin beneath, and hearing her yearning on the expectant horizon..

such a blustery day with leaves dancing and clouds swallowing the light, there are new clothes, close like old friends, and sometime tomorrow the hush of snow will smile outside my door.

there's a lot of life that I've lived but forgotten. there was a child who handed me a spark, which I've watched, fading, in the night.

God's sleight-of-hand, when we all expected magic.

I have wanted a great many things. not one has lasted to my satisfaction. what about you? you ask. I have never wanted the air, nor the sunshine. yet what am I without them?

fuck the fire that burned. we can be those dying embers, soft glowing, warm enough to carry the memories.

there's a sun gentle in the cool air there at the cusp of autumn, sitting in my skin like that little boy I once was, without a care or consequence.