My poetry

All poetry written by Amy Nelson

Là où l’amour a du pain (where love has bread)
We wallowed in the wood,
Mining for milk and honey.
We crumbled by the Meadowlark,
as the western wind passed through knots.

With breads of companion,
We soaked our footing on crooked rocks.
Days of fox hunting turned to hours of the climb.
Are these the last of the mountains, we’d whisper.

As fiddlers chirp by the planted boat,
We heard the laughter of escorted rivers.
We pawned our shoes for skipping stone,
and counted my bruised fingers.

The dimmest light stretched curtains,
And our verses were fire at moons hour.
The crickets benumbed the music,
But the dogwood danced.

When the salmon sky dripped morning hour,
We fed our cheeks with apricot buds,
The fruit gave me belly folds,
but you still saw my bones.

By these woods and the baby breath,
We kissed the trickery of number buckets,
With each saliva drop,
we grew less fond of counting.

When the patches of milkweed fell,
and the summer’s sphere quivered.
We found shelter by wood piles,
and the kin of the cotton.

With each passing eye fasten,
And the dimming of coal mines,
We found wild flowers in lip locks,
and star buttons in speech pots.

We wallowed in these woods,
By stockings, and by nakedness.
We lived alone before the belly,
Hankering for quartz, and grumbles.

As the love pebbles blanketed the sea shore,
and the woods brought witchery,
We became one with the mountain, These mountains.

Like a courting dressed in silks of honey,
My pale splint rests on the suitor’s shelf,
Feathered like a sparrow of the woods,

I will sleep on his shoulder, My mountain.
My love for you is bread.

The Bearded and The Belle
Will somebody remember us?
When the oatmeal hardens,
And the drawings decay,
from the brightest star.
The scented room,
Where we laid our furs,
And you caught me looking
at the bearded boy when
you pawed me as your belle.

Will somebody remember us?
When the oak from the seed,
builds the bridge from the dirt.
And the midsummer rambled,
where you pardoned your banjo,
And the love that I gambled,
when I drank too much.

Will somebody remember us?
When the mare’s tail loses its saliva,
And the biscuits of sand grow into smut,
By the baby beach,
Where we built castles by sand locks
And the tempest came, uninvited and
knocked the lords and the ladies 

Will somebody remember us?
When the lemon tea benumbs,
And the shortbread delights,
decay into crumbs.
Where a dragon lived in the stove,
and spewed fire from it’s gap.
And you burnt my poppy-seed,
after fasting in my lap.

Will somebody remember us?
When the drips from sleep turn warm
And the rain slips through 
the broken roof.
Where we played hide and seek
with the sky.
And the stars would hide in the ebony.
1.2.3 ready,                  or not.
The stars would shine but hide to be sought.

Will somebody remember us?
When the grasshopper sheds
And the skin is like love,
and the skin is like bearded babies.
Where we dressed as pilgrims,
And hid ourselves in the core.
Of baby belly love, 
And a love that is no more.

Will somebody remember us?
When the fever becomes a cold wintry light.
And our mid summer becomes a cinema.
And the astronomical day is only a clock.
And the beats are only ruined roots.
And the railway is only a timetable.
And we’re too blind to see the stars.
And we’re always seeking.
And they’re always hiding.
And the shortbread makes our muscles shrink.
And the grains of sand make our feet itchy.
And the oak tree is a reminder.
And the banjo is out of tune.
And the beard is a reminder.
And the furs don’t warm us.
And the bearded babies don’t like oatmeal.
And the oatmeal burns our throats.
And the drawings were only scribbles.
And the castles were shoe strings.
And the lords were just letters.
And the bell only rings.
And the broken roof wasn't real.
And the stories were fables.
And the bearded boy was just a boy.
And the belle was just a girl.
And the starlight bent,
and the castle fell.
How could they remember us?
The bearded boy and the belle.

And the bearded boy still sings.
only to a white wall, with a 
broken roof, where the sky caves in,
and the stars, they fall.

The cave of enchantment
in the cave of enchantment,
dine on peaches by the perennial and pine,
grains of golden gravel
wearing crowns composed of vine
The uncounted admiration,
I have for your wild beam
parallel to the stars and their moons,
barefoot on a stream.
far beyond the boyhood ballad
stretched across kindred home folk
you are my wildflower,
my singer-song by the sea.
the foreign love
of you and me.

Little Ballads
Little ballads are poured into the cups of a dreamer,
 bubbles climb my legs
like butterflies in a bathtub,
And the gardener in me wonders
when the sun will lick the mulberry shrub.

Little ballads are poured into the cups of a dancer,
some hands will rise early
like the hum in a melody's birth,
And the music maker in me wonders
 if I was made for this earth.

Little ballads are poured into the cups of a drinker,
bothered hearts will keep us running
like a beast with his horn,
and the mother in me wonders
 when my babies will be born.

Little ballads are poured into the cups of a girl with dandelion orbs,
dust sits on my guest room shelf
like a sky made of stars,
and the blue bird in me wonders 
why I'm stuck behind these bars.

Little ballads are poured into the cups of a stranger,
some kettle juice may spill
like a fine meal that tastes too plain,
and the traveler in me wonders
are all humans made the s a m e?