They Want...

They want for the marrow of her bones, to crack the calcium and sweeten their songs

To them her silence is rubies to wear in their glories, but she is a pirate who inked not one 

map to their treasure

Silence is a weakness, a plague of her senses, how could she not want to give voice to the 

angers

Some deaths are murders, to never resurrect in her and she knows this like the chainmail 

she wears as flesh on her bones

Throats were slit in art burned on the pyre of pain she erected on a night she conjured 

vultures to make love of her offerings, swallowing tongues ripped from festering guts 

So bottom feeders stick to leeches bleeding your own masses dry, she only lets close those 

who see beyond their eyes

E.A. O'Connell

She Was Born of Stars

She was born of stars

Within a house of bones

Amongst secret home souls

That spurred her inward glow

And through keyhole fine cracks

In seeded warped glass

She’d wait her constant light

Whispering kind to the night

Stay long my dark friend 

For when you go my path doth end 

And I love nothing more, than spy from my room

Luna, oh Luna, upon my eye, the moon

E.A. O'Connell

Morning Thoughts

The swallowtail quietly floats on the rolling motion of Zephyrus’ shoulder, through bowing wildflowers and warm aromatic grasses that spice her sunlit wings in coriander and lemon verbena.  The delicate pulse she beats in sultry summer atmosphere, suspends her in the tension spurred by the melding energies, thrilling in the seconds prior to alighting on the lustrous petals softly vibrating in the subterranean friction of the earth’s plates and crust. 

E.A. O'Connell

Mother Spring

Last minute of darkness from which aura song illuminates the eaves and draws forth grub 

determined orbs

Task and toil weaving a knotted homeland of rare earth truths, pause in their faithful 

symphony 

All hear the final breath in the waking dream upon which her feral teeth grind storied bones

Pulverizing into dust the battering wind that howls an ugly bruise deep beneath the 

sanguine tissue

In her exhale she casts green thoughts from the pain, asking of the roots to summon 

humming wings and lady beetles

Through the chill that draws fabric close to her breast she catches fragrant blossom growth 

within new buds

And the golden seam that severs for morning's abundant glow, casts a slant of light on a blue 

eye waking

With the acknowledgement that she is no less wondrous, no less enigmatic, no less true in 

nature as the Mother that enwraps her in Spring

E.A. O'Connell

Winter Dune Walk

Coffee warming bonfire in hands

Feet buried in frostbitten sand  

Piecing together shell puzzles

Under Winter’s ocean roaring

Dance driven lullabies sway me

Revitalizing soul drenched in summer future 

Looking out from screen door possibilities

Sun pressed countenance can’t shake out smile lines

As internal rhythm fuses with Nature’s sugarspun peace 

In spiced dunes

E.A. O'Connell

You Have...

You have a light in your eyes

And a direction in your smile

That could guide the lost home

E.A. O'Connell

City Pulse

City pulse

Taxis laying on horns and buses merging in bike lanes to circus music rotation in my head 

Coins rattling against paperclips and pen caps in bottomless pits of the briefcase and 

messenger bag caravan

Purple smudged receipts begging for an audience, slapping against graffiti and urine stained 

concrete in the automotive rush and underground steam

And the dog walking menagerie clearing a path for the right handed coffee drinkers holding 

cellular conversations in their left hands

As children longingly look out windows that reflect the towering city skyline's potential before 

their school day eyes

Morning rush in the beat of feet and street music

Play city play



E.A. O'Connell