Sigh No More by Nicole Barth [4/28/12]

I'm dreaming of a place where cello strings hum
a tune on the wooden slats of a park bench and
watercolor sunsets never fade. 
A cabin beneath the owl's nest. 


A place rusted bicycles would know. 
Our breaths the only interruption in the summer haze; 
no hesitations. 


Our backs against the trunk of a Willow tree; 
the air coated with the smell of rain. 
The freckles in our eyes would align. 

The Ink Factory by Nicole Barth [4/26/12]

The latest inkblot test is glued to your wooden floor.

What do you see on the walls of your bleached mind?

Ten thousand memorized words,

a bucket of newspaper clippings

and the latest sketch for a Technicolor tattoo.

The hawk that keeps you company

on a blackened Sunday,

and the sailboat permanently etched on the toe of your shoes.

There’s a drumming noise inside your head.

But there’s no use chasing Alice.

The hatter’s top hat has found a new home.

It never belonged to you.

Shuttered eyes hold you at an arm’s length. 

It’s time to pour it out.

Unravel your fists.

Release the iris petals, the broken compass and the stolen piano key.

Find your melody.  Exhale. 

Dandelion by Nicole Barth [4/21/12]

Tiger eyes found the silhouette of your face in the dark.

The fog of spiraling staircases,

 an echo in an empty room

and sepia photographs

floated behind her eyelids.

Alive in the unpainted brushstrokes of a blank canvas,

her glass tongue murmurs a soliloquy.

A note in the final bar of a love song.

The branch that leans toward you in the sunlight.

A marbled sky.

Interlocking ironwork on a copper door.

It reminds her of all the times her fingers have laced with yours.

The cardboard box of fluid confessions is the map

to her midnight musings and a heart of wild abandon. 

Color On the Walls by Nicole Barth [4/2/12]

The lining of my pocket is tearing at the seam.

I’ve carried a handful of trinkets and scraps of paper

 with your name on them for the past week.

A kiss, a sunrise and a polka dot dress seeped into its fibers,

along with a few hours of stolen laughter.

Tussled hair on a windy jetty.

The blare of a freight train’s horn driving past your uncle’s house.

The wrong lyrics to your favorite song on the radio.

They all found their way into the stitching.  

And one day, the seams will give way,

spilling all their contents at your feet:

the first day of spring,

a Floridian lullaby,

the chorus to my favorite love song;

and the beginning of a joke long forgotten.