a poetry e-zine










Ashley Warren



I found myself again in Powderhorn, waking

to a familiar bitter draft, stepping

lightly on wood floors cold and un-swept.

Only here

could the silence be so deafening

as one’s final breath.

November sky gray floods

all over and I wonder

how “nostalgia” has not yet been named

a color.

Behind my eyes in some small pocket

of brain sadness,

I can see that glistening chandelier by night. By day

the beads never could simmer with the gray.

And I can see the house-paint chipping purple,

Saturdays bourbon-soaked,

and devastation scrawled in curse

over tobacco-yellow walls

and cold un-swept floors.




Closed Constellations


I listen hard for love.

I crave a trust that levels me.

But as grounded as I try to be,

that dinner bell rings, shaking

my air balloon strings out of reach.

As much as I try to keep

tabs on my closed constellations,

my burning maps ask

for a second chance. My buried

compass begs to be watered.

And overtime, eternity

with you will squeeze

everything out of me.

Our sheets will only stir with selfish


My safety will be measured by everything

you can’t offer, while

the hourglass spills from

both sides.




It All Seems So Childish Now


Today I scowl at autumn’s palate

and its brilliant strokes.

They’re nothing but a cowardly

letter letting one down easy.

(I don’t love you) but

let’s make the leaves a beautiful death color.

Nothing black.

We’ll use ruby and gold, tangerine and crimson.

Make them brilliant before it’s all whitewashed.

Now rake them up.

Jump in.

Forget the crackle

and forget the echo

(because the months ahead are bound to be loud).



Ashley Warren’s work can be found in the *Full Moon Poetry Society*, which includes an award for 2nd best poem of 2011. Ashley has been published multiple times in the *Elohi Gadugi Journal*, has a short story in *The Cynic* and a poem in the *Southwest Journal.*

Copyright 2014  Chantarelle's Notebook