Autumn Comes

Autumn Comes

We pressed our cries into pillows
Like wildflowers onto pages,
As though we wanted to keep them
For our own.

Between our hardcovers and taut spines
We dried them, our baby’s breath blossoms
And forget-me-nots, before time could
Pluck their petals and bow their heads.

I keep them by the bed,
A bouquet of our sweet music
That we made one evening as
Summer waned and the last of its flowers
Grew from our lips
Begging for remembrance.

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©2017 Scarlett Sinclair. Designed by Black/Ash Consulting.

Hotel Siren

Hotel Siren

 
Pale and warm as driftwood, I lay
As though you had painted me there
With broken flowers in my hair
And you knelt like a child
Peaking shyly over the bath’s edge
Like a cracked door you had
Happened upon in a bout of
Lawless snooping, peering at
Some great secret, a coveted thing
That at once knotted your breath
And wet your tongue
So you crept closer,
Water stains crawled up your sleeves
Like rising tides and
Clawed at your shoulders
For a breathless embrace and
You gave your body to a clawfoot altar
Knowing gods love poets who
Die for a song.

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©2017 Scarlett Sinclair. Designed by Black/Ash Consulting.

Lady of Salt and Sand

Lady of Salt and Sand


For me you are
The inside of
A mussel’s shell,
Tender and full of offering,
Cheek smeared with
Moonlight, spine pliant
And open as a
Prayer book.

You marry me
To the blue with
A silver ring,
Stitch cloud to crest and
Press the edges smooth.

I pool inside of you
That I might reflect
The gleam of
Your pale face and
Bathe your brow
With salt and sand.

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©2017 Scarlett Sinclair. Designed by Black/Ash Consulting.

To You I Offer

To You I Offer

This body of milk and figs
To nourish your mornings
And kiss your insides.

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©2017 Scarlett Sinclair. Designed by Black/Ash Consulting.

Ripe

Ripe


And like ripe fruit
I split beneath his fingers,
Sweet and sticking to him,
He played with me
Between his lips and
I was consumed.

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©2017 Scarlett Sinclair. Designed by Black/Ash Consulting.

A Poet Begins

Hello, dear friends, and welcome to my Writer’s Room.
In this space, I will endeavor to share largely unedited and off the cuff poems, thought fragments, and contemplations with you.

Everything you read herein is my original work.
If you had desired to see a bit of my art and share some private thoughts, this is my answer to your queries.
Please enjoy the journey.

Our synapses branch between us
Like strings on a harp
That strum and create color notes
In our soft tissue
And that is how
For you, my love,
I become your masterpiece.

 

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©2017 Scarlett Sinclair. Designed by Black/Ash Consulting.

Offering

Offering


Fill yourself with the
Fruits of my body, which have
Been given up for you,
Swollen and split under
The smoke of cloves that
Hangs like garland in
The crooked, gray light.

I have no insides, I am opened,
Spilling over, drink me and
Read me like tea leaves
Where gods have written your
Fortune into the freckles
On my back, into the hairs of
This pale neck that bends
Like a parched flower with
Its roots broken,
Wrists turned upward.  

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©2017 Scarlett Sinclair. Designed by Black/Ash Consulting.

A Poet Begins

Hello, dear friends, and welcome to my Writer’s Room.
In this space, I will endeavor to share largely unedited and off the cuff poems, thought fragments, and contemplations with you.

Everything you read herein is my original work.
If you had desired to see a bit of my art and share some private thoughts, this is my answer to your queries.
Please enjoy the journey.

Our synapses branch between us
Like strings on a harp
That strum and create color notes
In our soft tissue
And that is how
For you, my love,
I become your masterpiece.

 

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E-mail address:  

©2017 Scarlett Sinclair. Designed by Black/Ash Consulting.

Wake

Wake


You creature of stretched hide and
Scorched rope, unhinge your jaw,
Let me bellow inside of you.

I am the Great Wind come to
Shake your leafless limbs and
Carry your echo to the mountainside,

For you are made of drums that
Thunder blood, rhythms that birthed stars,
Your battered hollows I will expand until
You can swallow an orchestra.

keep reading...

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©2017 Scarlett Sinclair. Designed by Black/Ash Consulting.

A Poet Begins

Hello, dear friends, and welcome to my Writer’s Room.
In this space, I will endeavor to share largely unedited and off the cuff poems, thought fragments, and contemplations with you.

Everything you read herein is my original work.
If you had desired to see a bit of my art and share some private thoughts, this is my answer to your queries.
Please enjoy the journey.

Our synapses branch between us
Like strings on a harp
That strum and create color notes
In our soft tissue
And that is how
For you, my love,
I become your masterpiece.

 

Want to stay in touch? Sign up for my mailing list!

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©2017 Scarlett Sinclair. Designed by Black/Ash Consulting.

Legato

Legato

You water the space between my bones and
I grow languid and long,
Line stretching
Beyond my own fingertips
Like an echo in blue,
Mouth full of violets,
Still as a living thing can be
Who exists between the
Clock chimes.

keep reading...

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©2017 Scarlett Sinclair. Designed by Black/Ash Consulting.

A Poet Begins

Hello, dear friends, and welcome to my Writer’s Room.
In this space, I will endeavor to share largely unedited and off the cuff poems, thought fragments, and contemplations with you.

Everything you read herein is my original work.
If you had desired to see a bit of my art and share some private thoughts, this is my answer to your queries.
Please enjoy the journey.

Our synapses branch between us
Like strings on a harp
That strum and create color notes
In our soft tissue
And that is how
For you, my love,
I become your masterpiece.

 

Want to stay in touch? Sign up for my mailing list!

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E-mail address:  

©2017 Scarlett Sinclair. Designed by Black/Ash Consulting.

Steady

Steady


I cannot write
In a notebook without
Lines, these hands too
Clumsy and shy that

Defend my lips from speech,
Or strike like a viper,
Far too much
To contain themselves.

keep reading...

Categories

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©2017 Scarlett Sinclair. Designed by Black/Ash Consulting.

A Poet Begins

Hello, dear friends, and welcome to my Writer’s Room.
In this space, I will endeavor to share largely unedited and off the cuff poems, thought fragments, and contemplations with you.

Everything you read herein is my original work.
If you had desired to see a bit of my art and share some private thoughts, this is my answer to your queries.
Please enjoy the journey.

Our synapses branch between us
Like strings on a harp
That strum and create color notes
In our soft tissue
And that is how
For you, my love,
I become your masterpiece.

 

Want to stay in touch? Sign up for my mailing list!

Want to stay in touch and recieve tour schedules? Fill out your e-mail address to receive my Newsletter!
E-mail address:  

©2017 Scarlett Sinclair. Designed by Black/Ash Consulting.

Where is the King?

Where is the King?


I would paint you with the smell of crushed lilies 
And bits of broken china,
With sticky, sweet reds like carafes of wine
From the warm, basement bar stinking of French cheeses.

I would dip my toes, my arches in ink and dance over velvet
Like Salome to the rumble of your voice reading in my ear.

I’d make your likeness of suffused amber poured through
Charcoal like a city street if I could swallow it and wring it
From my hair in the morning

But these orchid hands cannot hold fire, and you are
So far, so far, so far from here
In your heather house.

I tap your rhythm but I do not sing.
I am no minstrel and one does not call
The King to court,
Only hope that his sails will fill and bring me
His true form soon.

keep reading...

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©2017 Scarlett Sinclair. Designed by Black/Ash Consulting.

Scarlett St. Clair