Laura Hershey: Writer, Poet, Activist, Consultant Rotating Header Image

Laura’s Poetry

Here are a few of Laura’s recent poems:

A Call to Arms

(Originally published in Fall 2008 issue of Trillium Literary Journal.)

O bark the tree; leaf the book;
uncork the bottles, and stir the cook.
Winter the worn, torn calendar.
Spring the forgotten prisoner.
Breach all borders; stoke all hopes.
Quarter the soldier but disorder the troops.
Draft the breeze. Beam down the sun.
O pen your poetry, everyone.

Copyright 2006 by Laura Hershey


five till five, botanic gardens

(Originally published in Fall 2008 issue of Trillium Literary Journal.)

purple salvia
tiny fringed cones

drawn by fragrance
hummingbird hovers

tiny wind of wing
reed beak

she sucks sweet
from color

like a flute player
like a fine wine drinker

as she swallows
her fleshy thumb body

dips happily
shimmering green

Copyright 2007 by Laura Hershey



(Originally appeared in the July 2009 issue of Shakespeare’s Monkey Review)

a sentence slips from me like silk
spun smooth raw-edged
unfolding now
between hidden lips
red banner spreading silk message of
time passing
cradle rocking falling
power blood speaking

this is an easy birth
no contractions no knuckled screams

just quiet bursting forth
of roseflesh

though careless where my issue lands
graceless eloquent tissue
I revere the force it represents
respect the torrent scattering
my petals

overstaying welcome
mocking man’s grid-block calendar
overpainting the lines

is out of the question

from dream into word
each shred emerges from larva
draws breath
palpitates free of this nutritious enclosure
bares shocking colors
crimson orange almost black
takes flight

I weaken
rejoice for
it is my blood filling these wings

Copyright 2006 by Laura Hershey


Fishing Pier

(Originally published in Gertrude Journal #14)

Poles stand alone, fishing
on their own,
propped against rails
gray weathered wood whitened
with graffiti and gullshit.
Fish guts slosh from full pails.
Here and there men
in nylon and fleece
keep watch like foremen over workers;
their kids scramble amid buckets and bait
or sit hunched in hooded coats
knowing better than to whine.
The pier cuts a long gray gash
through the belly of the Bay,
a ragged cement seam
between me and the sea.

Between me and the sea
something floats like flute music,
lands like a glance on a lost shore.
Its damp touches my skin
like the makeup I wore to prom,
like mountain campfire ash.

All places precious, all memories wet.
On this crowded concrete stretch
let shorebirds bless
the men, the kids, the poles,
and all the fish-gut mess.

Copyright 2007 by Laura Hershey

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