Tolbert

a poetic lamentation

A figure stands in the rain. Their top half obscured by a red umbrella and the bottom half visible with black and white patterned baggy, blousy trousers. They stand in front of trees.
Photo by Aline Nadai from Pexels

It’s called a period

but how many times

do we have the fortune

of it being only a

statement;

It’s called a period

but how many times

would we like

the exclamation point

vibrating with immense pressure

quaking our uterine walls

cramping, crimping, and cringing

bloody waterfall…

--

--

a poem about spells, casting, and manifestations

A dark blue gradient of star-filled sky with a rim of sunset in oranges and pinks at the bottom. There are rocky silhouettes underneath. One white comet is in the right side of the image showering down.
Photo by Dick Hoskins from Pexels

Frissons, swirling stirrings in my gut

murmurations of energy being liberated

tingling through my nerves

and alighting in my core.

The comet assembles.

Fireballing, gathering heat

thrusting blood into my extremities and face

pinking; armpits exhausting fumes I pit out

casting change.

The thrust forcing me to exercise my

vocal…

--

--

a poem vignette

A hazy photo of a graveyard with a brick building in the background and trees enshrouding the tombstones.
Photo by Chris F from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/photo-of-a-graveyard-10045909/

He bit through his tongue

made a notch in it

the size of a fingernail.

He sat quietly most days

at the dinner table

rarely engaging in discussion.

He dug graves covered in

earth and soil, collected worms

to sell to local fishermen.

He was not a repair man and

--

--

a poetic self-portrait

Selfie photo of writer with hair in blonde waves cascading towards the camera lens. The writer’s eyes are focused towards the upper left corner of photo and mouth is wide and smiling. Sunlight is peeking through tendrils of hair.
Selfie from 2020 where my hair reminded me of a tree’s branches and leaves.

My trunk is lined with stretch marks

showing where I have grown and aged

though if you cut through me you

would not see rings.

My branches of leaves are coarse

tendrils that curl and frizz

in humidity, change color

from exposure to the sun

and fall when there’s new…

--

--

a prose poem

Two silhouettes under an umbrella in an outdoor low lit environment. Everything is rainy and hazy looking surrounding the pair. Black and brown tones.
Photo by GEORGE DESIPRIS from Pexels

There is a shared belief

that when something

or someone is at an ending

we need closure

and that to have closure

means to never have to

think about, delve into,

or revisit that ending

ever again.

Closure

is not

a sealing off

of an ending

forever

--

--

a poem about hiking

A grove of trees with autumn colored leaves loom over a leaf covered creek that has boulders and rocks protruding from it. A couple fallen trees lie across the creek in the background and a little sunlight can be seen at the back of the picture where there is a small break in the trees.
Photo by Marta Wave from Pexels

The grove and I had a moment

cold patch hot patch ghostly bent

rolling on nuts

avoiding the skid into fluffy white butts

the grove and I had a moment;

hiking along at a steady clip

more nuts, tree roots

trying not to trip

nor slip

sounds of snapping twigs…

--

--

a poem about TMJ

A zoomed in photo on a gray stone mortar and pestel crushing green herbs and plants.
Photo by Karolina Grabowska from Pexels

Grinding

(but not the kind you think)

my teeth together

before I even realize

I am doing it.

I unclench

my jaw

and rarely

get that woom woom woom

feeling these days.

The kind that feels

like waves

from pressure and pain.

Desensitizing myself

to tension I now carry

in…

--

--

Tolbert

Tolbert

Librarian and Information Specialist by day. Queer writer of poetry, sensuality, personal experience, and health by night. Instagram @tolbert_on_medium #BLM✊🏿