We spoke all day as we walked in the rain,
our words flowed smoothly like honey
alternating and woven in a patterned game.
Her eyes obscured through clouded glasses,
but soft as obfuscated fields of daisies
whenever they turned my way.

We began down the gravel pathway,
back to my apartment out of the rain
for a cup of green tea and a spoon of honey
and perhaps to play a little game.
Wiping the moisture beads off my glasses,
I filled a vase with water and daisies.

The room saturated with the scent of fresh daisies
roaming around, clearing the way
as the windows rinsed in the mist and rain.
The city sat drinking in light the color of honey.
It was time for that little game,
so on the table, I set out a bottle of wine with glasses.

I readjusted my glasses
awkwardly staring into the bouquet of daisies
waiting for the silence to slither away,
until the words poured down like the rain.
I kissed her. She whispered “O, honey.”
I pulled back, a cat and mouse sort of game.

We took turns being timid like wild game.
My cheeks blushed as fog accumulated on my glasses.
Thoughts intertwined like a thicket of daisies,
her words showing me the way
between good and evil just like the rain
running round as honey.

The words stuck in my ears, trapped in honey—
a thought to remain, a reminder of the game.
On the table stood our two empty wine glasses,
ruby stained light projected next to the daisies.
It was time we were on our way,
we walked back out into the rain.

In the park the rain painted the grass with honey,
fragile like game pieces made of glass
as the daisies smiled at the pathway.

-Samantha Derleth

We drove into dusk,
never reaching the edge ‘tween
dust and orange sky.
The radio played lightly
under our forgotten words.


-Samantha Derleth

Perfect deaf he kept coarse language,
figs, or something evil perhaps—
ego into the cycle by sunshine
is a stone of a thousand voices,
God himself a riverbank
about his jealousy gathering wood.
My heart, my breath the wanderer
which smells of perfume.
My heart, my breast looked at him
profoundly empty with a tired smile
like a thin mist, it spots and wrinkles,
but he fails to taunt that expectancy.
Her body’s on the city’s edge
softly as a pleasure garden
teaching others to dip and fall as the moon.
According to the path of self extinction
his shriveled fingers never cooked food,
and the stars crossed arms with apprehension
vivid old spots of discourse.


-Samantha Derleth

Time			 Sound			Xenophobia
Space			 Image			Bigotry
Mass			 Intellect		Sociability

Ticking gears 	Bebop			Fence posts
Braided rope 	Chocolate pop	Shotgun shells
Boiled egg 		A priori		 	Warm cup of tea


-Samantha Derleth

Come my pallid mistress, you look lovely in that silver dress.
My Love, my dear, how you play the fool.
When I press my eyes tightly together,
garden flowers never wane under the weight of raindrops.

And do you believe I fit any better—
spinning as a cog without any open teeth.
But come my pallid mistress, you look lovely in that silver
dress.
My love, my dear, how you play the fool.

Crimson columbine may leave honey on my breath,
yet her petals are barely a shadow passing through the night.
My sweet fool, be still for now—
close your eyes and kiss me.
O my pallid mistress, you look lovely in that silver dress.


-Samantha Derleth

Last night the trees were coated by hoar frost,
the thin branches yearning like crystal arms,
frozen in time, frozen in my mind
as my shoes slipped and slid over the pavement.

The moon rinsed itself in a cloud of mist,
a glowing frozen ice cube in my eye;
her halo hung to my right, pinned by the wrist
steady and constant in the sky

painting, left, the boughs with a pale light.
The wind and the back of my throat ringed
intertwined like the winding on a piano string
waking my brain from the stolid night air.

And though the night owns the moon as the city
owns the tree, I, alone was there to see.


-Samantha Derleth

Old poetry never diffuses into the air,
but rather becomes a part of me,
like a stranded maple leaf changing color.

Verses light my brain and curl my hair—
a mixing bowl of music and reverie,
because old poetry never diffuses into the air,

and never turns a shade of dolor
with a note of anxiety
like a stranded maple leaf changing color.

There are books scattered everywhere;
some spines vertical with words running horizontally,
proof that old poetry never diffuses into the air,

or on those certain days when poetry is a blur,
sipping sepia from a glass of tea
and watching a stranded maple leaf change color.

I know that I’ll never see
old poetry just diffuse into the air
as I know words will forever be
like a stranded maple leaf changing color.

-Samantha Derleth

In my room Shakespeare lay open, rigid on the floor,
the coarse-grain cover glued solid on the floor,
while sweet notes flowed gently through my loft
from the vinyl spinning stolid on the floor.

I could not bear to read another word of bastardy and base
anymore, so I placed him coverlid on the floor,
where his problems hid like the ridges on the roof of my mouth
or dust underneath my bed, deeply hid on the floor.

I left Shakespeare open that night
for the pages to grow yellow and squalid on the floor.

-Samantha Derleth