We sit on vast tectonic plates
equivalent in thickness to the skin of an apple.
Beneath,
a vast pool of molten rock,
Magma so hot it burns
clear through the Earth’s crust
up to the surface.
Volcanoes erupt.
Did you hear me?
The skin of an apple determines our fate.
We are powerless: we tread on the filament
of a spider’s web.
Always be a poet. Even in prose.
— Charles Baudelaire.
In essence I am a storyteller who writes poems. Put simply, I write the poems I want to read.[…]
A sequence of my poems has been published in a hardcover book entitled The Music of Leaving Poems by Tricia McCallum
More info…
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