POETRY

Winter Light

In the winter light, it seems
There is no delight;
The frost has kept us lost,
Moss gone quiet,
The sky forgetting its color.

Yet still a softness lingers—
A hush around this weathered world,
A promise in the whitening air
That what sleeps will wake us,
And what feels lost
Will find warmth again.

Even here, where doves call faintly
And the globe grows worn with wandering,
What breaks us
Wakes us,
And what feels lost tonight
Will find its warmth again.

Two young voices rise—
Prosperous, furious, delicate—
Their outrage ringing hollow,
As if this land itself
Forgot its color too.

Still, at this worn-out edge of America,
I wait at the gate:
Vines from Europe,
Surfers smiling,
Salt in the air—

And truth be told,
Winter tis’ cold.

So let us be bold.

2025

“Page Turner!”

A sky unbuttons into flame,
light trembling on the edge of name—
where sea becomes the color time
and ships dissolve in salted rhyme.

No outline holds; the world is breath,
a golden storm that dreams of death.
Smoke curls where history once stood.
Oh, London burns in painter’s blood.

He knew the sun was not just fire,
but grief that glowed, that could expire—
a fevered God with wings of mist,
Each brushstroke, like a lover’s tryst.

And when the light began to die,
he let it spill across the sky—
as if the Heart, once caught in blaze,
Have Mercy on the Paint,

Faint,

Page. Turner!

2025

“Love at Last”

You walked through the world like a flame with appetite,
knife in one hand, cigarette in the other,
eyes always tuned to the quiet poetry
of broken plates and back-alley broth.

You spoke for the cook,
the nameless woman stirring soup
in a city no one could pronounce—
for the restless, the honest,
the ones who never belonged in daylight.

Your cathedral was a market stall,
your gospel: “sit, eat, listen.”
You told us that food is never just food—
it’s the story of who we are when we stop pretending.

There was darkness, too—
the kind you seasoned with wit and whiskey,
the kind that sits across from you at 3 a.m.
and dares you to keep talking.

You showed us the map,
not the tourist’s map, but the real one—
lined with scars and street smoke,
with laughter you couldn’t fake.

And when you left,
the world felt a little hungrier,
a little quieter,
like an empty stool in a bar
where someone once told the truth.

2025

TO PLY

Mention the resisters
And no poet
Impudent enough to author
Will Spring
A Flower
Or fleas in a vacuum
To another Aesthetic school
In the blackest of Night
Threads of guards
And yarns of Generals
Attempt a glance
At the old inventors
Ridding their way to Victory
Centuries of truths, unfolded
Pressed and cleaned
To the death
Of Prolonged Existance
Otherwise Art will End
Free play will perish
Inevitably applied
Greek and Latin
Craft
Cruelly wrong
With Song!

Strange Identity

Evolution in the plastic
Extend and intensify
Solitude as time
A true way of Art
Evoking the equation of
The Universal
Arousing the emotion
Some continuous and
Gradual
Extension of
A cord of Principles
Why illogical realms
Of diametrically opposed growths
Surpass her
Take the length and depth
As the construction trend
Neutrality was in her
Employing the gradual
Decay
She found today
Inherent in the conception
Of a strange identity
Of no note

Her Retina

Her retina
Told local color
To pierce and find Summer
On a Winter’s day
Hot illusions rendering the color
Itself
To flower
Springing solid objects
To eliminate light
Burdening a great step
Lettering and dancing
In the Nude

For more information on Sophie’s poems please contact her directly at [email protected]