Oh Stars, My Stars

Oh Stars, My Stars

By M. F. Bradley

Oh Stars

My shimmering beacons of light

You scatter the Galaxy with your magnificence.

Born of the Deep

Born of the Deep

By M. F. B. Porter

you are the waves, born of the deep

you are my dreams, born without sleep

you are the sky, glittered with stars

you are the moon, shining so far

Forest

Forest

By M. F. B. Porter

I don’t know what to think. I watch my feet step one after the other slowly, as if a picture show from a projector.  Each step looks the same as the one before, and yet somehow completely different.  I step on leaves, and then mud, grass and pine needles.  I’m looking for someone.  

Ode to the Night

Ode to the Night

By M. F. B. Porter

Your sultry breath brushes my skin, electric,

And as I trace the vague, opaque streets.

Statue

Statue

By M. F. B. Porter

It stood in quiet solitude in the direct center of the vast room.  

Undertree

Undertree

By M. F. B. Porter

Sometimes I wonder if you think of me

If you recall our warm summer undertree

When we were lost, but also free

Like the young and untamed sea

Urban Angel

Urban Angel:

“The Little Matchgirl” Reimagined
By M. F. B. Porter

I could feel the damp grass seeping into the back of my faded jeans and long dark hair, but I couldn’t bring myself to open my eyes and be blinded by the gray sky, a cold and unfriendly reminder on my bare arms and face.  I exhaled through my nose and tried to remember the dream I reluctantly woke up from.

Gatsby's Green Light

Gatsby’s Green Light

By M. F. B. Porter

They all stood huddled together in the yellow, luminous lamplight.  They were small in number, just four- but their combined histories made for explosive and poisonous chemistry.  Though, as they all stood in the street on the edge of night, none of them knew their futures, or the darkness that would follow them because of their accidental meeting and great misfortune of ever getting to know one another.

No Place Like Home

No Place Like Home

By M. F. B. Porter

I’m half asleep, lying on my side.  The hard wooden boards of my tree house are imprinting their rough pattern on my bare legs, dirtying my favorite outfit- red and white checkered over-alls with a fluorescent crimson rose in the direct middle of my shirt.

Believe

Believe
By M. F. B. Porter

Every day I see these people going to church

Every day I see these people walking the street

They look at me funny but never ask me

Hey kid, what do you believe?

The Life and Times of Randall Weston

The Life and Times of Randall Weston

By M. F. B. Porter

Randall Weston never meant to cheat on his wife.  After all, she was beautiful, a successful therapist, she took meticulous care of their house; nothing slipped through the cracks.  She was sweet.  Even Randall’s friends thought he’d hit the spousal jack-pot.