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Teresa Wright

tracing twaddle dot by dot, letter by letter

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Blog posts : "Poetry"

dangling like an infinitive

Tolerant, I stray 
on the beam of disorder. 
Roaming, I puzzle 
the moral night, 
that I might tip-toe 
as my old-self, 
an elastic tumbler, 
sure of feet. 
Oh, but this plank, 
this trick 
I step upon, 
knows my meandering. 
In front it deposits 
a strip of dog-eared 

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I wasn't seeking a hummingbird

enduring as a Bengal's stripes
I've strayed evermore ground,
trekked on and around, uphill.
chancing upon a familiar river
I've hushed curious bends and
drifted, late with silent stealth.
flowing fluently without breath
I've caught the fascinated view

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I was the seedling  


to shoulder the slime 

earth in revolt  

facing slaughter 

I, the box elder furrowed  


I, the ash-leafed lengthened 




I mat…

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I was traded (the naked truth is rarely mushy)


I know the scent like a holding 
breaths of sweat beading ooze 
off the folds, unopened wallets 
pressed as a wager in the dark.

Sprawled like the odds, waiting 
in the cards to be the handbill 
exchanged. An easy good turn 
between cronies and consorts.

I know the etching …

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Still, The Morning

Crying east, 

I twist and yawn, 

lose myself in the coming dawn. 

Still, the morning comes. 

Still the morning wipes the night, 

dizzied time without your light 

shining on to me. 


Looking west, 

you yield and smile, 

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my ashes

Earlier than the ashes  
I was wintry, towering. 
An undressed standing  
stone, I kept ruins near. 
Gleaming into the ashes 
I was a fata morgana, an 
ambiguous crone, mired 
as a cur, a vexed polyglot. 
Leaping from the ashes 
I was an open pine box. 
A conscious stream…

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Loathing indulgence

A terrible thing, waking from a dream 

to the aftermath, like an all-night party 

when the parents were gone, and 'cool' 

was your thinking, not 'how the fuck did  

that get in the kitchen?', and not 'oh, shit 

… we really did that!'. And when morning …

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the hard part

The hard part is finding that I am raw, 
not just once in a while. The hard part 
is learning it's an always-on switch, an 
ugly painting crazy-glued to your wall. 

The hard part is you cannot remember 
what was so cool in the first place, what 
with its clashing tones and hard…

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Me, as mother

Me, silent  

as audience 

to the pendulum. 


I know, I know 

the beat 

I know 

claps drums 

to and fro and 

jiggles that sanity 

that address  

that spies  

my leeway 


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lighting fire

(from 2006)

hearing is distort ed
blue cr
    l es     t h r o u g h
WHITE smoke
sounds latent hover – heavy
h ot    re D coals to stir to stoke
padding foo tsteps

S T O M P damp   the    ground
u e e      yet       sit.…

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I felt inclined, as if I was human.
I splashed toward the shoreline
as if I could leave these waters
this filth, this antipathetic home.

I once promised myself to never
reveal myself to another human,
for the greater good. I allowed my
greed, and failed to safeguard you.

so, yes ... I …

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becoming mute

I lost count around 986 ….  
without finding a fit, not  
one, no flawless likeness. 
In truth, I fooled around 
with a handful, drunk and 
twirling like counterparts. 
Then I dressed them up in 
working garb. Layered, so 
to keep the context just a 
tad blurred, in case joyless …

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laying there

Lost days, like  
tender letters  
wrote poems.  
Firsts spun-off,  
tossed carelessly  
as games.  
Did you forfeit   
for a buck?  
Oh, did you come  
to an offering,  
a living?  
The great reveal  
came like winter  
a woolly coa…

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Ode to an Arachnid, to a Savior

Oh arachnid, you are magnetic, a catch.  
You are lustrous, an obsidian wisp, 
at ease. Smoothly grasping those overhead grooves,  
you are freed from gravity, from lust. I dream your clustered eyes 
see me, on the brink of insignificance, immersed 
in the complexity of my cotton sheets. 

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Let me sleep

Let me sleep 
in my own filth 
on worn down sheets 
painted with my own lies. 
For there I will tuck away  
my words inside  
wads, wound as tight  
as static. 
There, I'll let  
your deals cling like velcro, 
hugging my naked  
contours like an oil slick. 
Liking it …

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a timeless eye

What was it I saw? Showing me  

the opening, that budding 

flower, in the midst 

of a real moment, 

a most tangible  


in time? 


You asked, compelled a recount,  

something bankable to know. 

Hoping fo…

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I breathe lilac

Lay back, 
stare skyward, 
let eyelids fall, 
closing off 
honed habits, 
humdrum impressions, 
like the normalcy 
of things. 
Is the sky there, still, 
in your reality? 
Do clouds swirl? 
And, can you see 
the mountains, 
near or on the horizon?
We all have headlands 
to approach, 

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Games people still play

Toss the dice, if you can’t take it.

Make a deal, I’ll cut the deck.
See you anteing up, just like a player,
See you anteing up, I know you hedged your bet.
I am a game plan, a strategy, 
I am a game plan, for your misogyny.

A taxi driver, listening to the score, drove you
across tow…

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Now Available at

Support independent publishing: Buy this book on Lulu.

A book of poetic musings

copyright 2017 Teresa Wright

Available at Lulu

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My itchy bones

This skin, 
the itchiest in the civilized world,
clings to my hasty bones, 
waves to full moons, 
sings as feathered as
a garbage-bag-flag from tall snow 
covered trees.

This skin irks me to scratch past the bloody truth.

This bark,
the flakiest in the popular world,
strips my fa…

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