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"These Days"

by Victoria Twomey 2007

these days,
the old man looks for a long while and with greater trespass
into evening’s eyes
as if there were something he might wade out to

these days,
when he sinks into dreams
he sails an indigo ocean with his departed wife
gone so young, so soon
their world is lit by brilliant moonlight
she smiles and her hands are warm
like they always were
now her words sound like hummingbird wings
and her eyes are filled with galaxies

these days,
he confides more in his long gone father
senses something in the shadows
waiting patiently for recognition

Published on Poetrybay - Winter 2007




by Victoria Twomey 2009

the sun in spring struggles
to rise up from winter’s bed of icy sheets
like Lazarus
gone dead for days
still possessing a smoldering ember
of life light down deep within
still holding fast under death’s frozen shroud
when, come the appointed season
something within him is released
and he rises, slowly, shivering
the frost of nevermore still crusted upon his eyes
as the birds begin to sing a glowing yellow song
and everyone can feel it
something warm and miraculous has come our way
something new and beautiful is happening
and everybody is smiling
as if they’ve never seen
life rise and walk across the sky

Published on Poetrybay - Fall/Winter 2009




"How Melancholy, How Divine"

by Victoria Twomey 2005

how melancholy
how divine
to cling to this gossamer thread
while disease does it dirty gnawing work
and time, that masked cat burglar
steals the sun and the moon
yanks the yellows and reds into yesterday
the breeze and the honeysuckle into last week
filing them away in the black hole of his sack
poor death, so bored, so certain
never able to close his gaping jaw
think of the young foal
bursting with new life
how, as soon as it’s born
struggles to stand
is soon prancing
running in circles for hours
jumping for joy
kicking out and up with its little hoofs
how melancholy
how divine
to dangle for awhile
in the midst of such magic




Upon Reading The Life After
by Mario Susko, a survivor of
the war in Bosnia.




by Victoria Twomey 2004


i read your words

and wish i could send sweet snow

to fall on those bruised gray lines


the horror of an ancient snorting beast

loose, insane

inside the breakable green forest


human vowels cry from the closed mouth of survival

where one counts each footstep to avoid the sky

too blue to bear

love curls up and hibernates in some dark cave

lets pass the black shiny boots of war


i think they must pass still, strangely silent

in the cavern of your midnight sleep


i light a candle with this poem

a prayer for cool pure snow

to fall gently on your eyes

until you see only white


and then

emerging in small, kind degrees

a bright, blue-sky dream

to carry you through the night


First Place Winner Performance Poets Association Contest 2004




Copyright 2018 Victoria Twomey. All rights reserved.