Poetry by Marisa Jorgensen

dream swimmer

an echo of a melancholic sound, like whales

humming to the tune of the restless sea.

a thrumming, static pulse beneath the walls of skin,

like a whistling alarm crying amidst chaos,

or a beacon disrupting the peace of the darkened sky.

the way goosebumps retreat with just a touch.

a mind asunder, thoughts perched with sharp teeth,

prepared like a bullet with one lethal goal.

a legacy reflected in sparkling eyes, like a final note

reverberating through a twisting crowd filled with smiles.

and, your voice, light and oceanic, like calm waves,

like an ambrosial waft of lavender and pine.

your voice, soft and just a memory now; just words

and supercut conversations bouncing around in my head.

some things only come alive when they die.

like their absence is a trigger.

cue grief. cue noiseless torture. call in the tides.

lulled into madness, diving straight down below.

an echo might be the last thing that lingers.

because you will always be here, right beside me,

glimmering and haunting. a reality so close

it’s out of reach. even in the sea

of my dreams.

below zero

Winter is on its tiptoes and eyeing us

from over the fence, sore from standing,

waiting, where it is cold and cold and shivering.

this is dangerous. Winter is not meant to be here just yet.

don’t let the blues and greens and yellow hues die so soon.

Winter whispers, wanders unforgivingly, with purpose,

and taps on windows, slips silently into dreams

turned nightmares, returning as a muse for longing.

fresh, crisp, with promise gleaming in its crystal eyes and

a clever smile, onlooking a future of chilly landscapes.

full trees shed into skeletons, sidewalks embedded

with Winter’s pristine signature and human footprints,

long shadows climbing into the sky for earlier and harsher nights.

Winter conspires and schemes. spears autumn in the chest

and watches the blood bleed. laughs wickedly.

Winter, and its heavy, but featherlight body, here to conquer,

and reign, tumbling down with the year’s first snowfall,

piercing souls through the cruel, restless wind.

frozen eyes, frozen heart, Winter waits, and waits,

until time is whistling, beckoning it to plant its icy feet

and expand, masquerading the world in a sheet of

pure white, a facade devoid of colour, draining away life.

Winter waltzes on the edge of tomorrow, and we are not ready,

for once it arrives, Winter will persist, like a bullet

through a body, like an avalanche down a mountain.

the air, already clouding with the smell of death. Winter,

perched on the landing, where it is cold and cold and shivering.

ready to steal our breath.

Marisa Jorgensen is a Canadian writer in the Honours Bachelor of Creative Writing and Publishing program at Sheridan College. She has enjoyed writing for as long as she can remember and loves telling stories through everything she creates. Her poetry has been published in Analogies & Allegories Literary Magazine, with intentions, Undressed Society Quarterly Magazine, Poetry Undressed, and is forthcoming in The Familiars Magazine. She is currently working towards completing a poetry collection and also aspires to publish novels in the future. Her favourite hobbies include reading, listening to music, crocheting, and photography.