Christine Austin Cole
Biography of Christine Austin Cole
'A woman made of words is milkweed, bound to rattle open, scatter, and be lost.'
~ Marisa de Los Santos (excerpted from Io's Gift, which was included in her poetry collection, From The Bones Out)
Christine Austin Cole Poems
She tumbled from the sky that night White washed and too familiar Holding cotton candy dreams In her hand
I Left A Poem
I left a poem on the side of the highway last night. With every exhale, words, like litter, escaped me To flee-float out and about and along,
To a claustrophobic, the confessional was penance enough, she thought - an upended coffin filled with rotting sins and little more.
Art (For An Audience Of One)
I may be Art in the way that he was, she was in the way that you, most certainly, are –
Lost Marbles (A Coffee Shop Tragedy)
“To be honest, ” she said as if lying would be nothing new, “I seriously thought about not telling you.”
Debris (Dust Or Diamonds)
[We won’t survive this as we began it…] We’ll be dust or diamonds, remnants of the selves we were;
Art (And Nothing More)
…. somewhere, he is standing with a brush in one hand and another trapped between his teeth, oblivious to the drops of paint that have fallen on his collar, on the floor beside him, on the top of his
Here, Now, Tonight
Dare I breathe even? Would you hear, perhaps Even the quietest of inhales And exhales, were I to do so?
[For the record... even I find the choice and extent of the metaphor here really rather odd, and kind of intriguing]
An Evening In Portugal
“…Pessoaic, ” he said and my heart fluttered. ~
And Then, Not
'Everything that happens where we live happens in us. Everything that ceases in what we see ceases in us. Everything that has been, if we saw it when it was, was taken from us when it went away. The office boy left today.' ~Fernando Pessoa
The Practical Application Of What We For...
For better or worse We become accustomed To our lives.
The Morse Code Of Eternal Dreams
The dirt embedded beneath my fingernails - so perfectly, so fully now, [I could grow things there but for the lack of sunlight]–
In that moment When awareness collided With recollection - The thunderous sound of dust
Fading lines of now blurred ink
And metal, fascinating metal
That I confess to have over thought
From comfort to bruised skin
Music, moonlight… and then
Night’s bursting heart giving way
To the practical considerations of day