Poetry Collection – by AVALON GRAVES

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Broken Mirrors and Black Cats


I am the breeze that haunts your midnight’s,

the last twinkle of hope

in your sky.

As darkness falls

you fall

for me

and wonder why…

A black cat hissed at you

this morning,

you cursed my name and

kept walking.

The phone rang-

it was you

calling. I didn’t answer.

Tonight, you will break an

arm or,

another mirror and

yet again

my name will dance on your tongue.

The Cycle


I look at you-

like what I see.

You look at me,

wonder what could be.

You desire,

you want

you crave…

I reciprocate.

You get a taste-

I captivate.

I wander. You wait.

I stop

I think,

I no longer want.

I look away.

I miss. I might regret…

so I look back,

while you forget. So then,

I need.



She wanted to be everywhere and

nowhere simultaneously.

To pause the now

and soak it up

like rain, or like tampons do blood

intentionally, without really trying.

Often she fancied

finding solace in fragments of her

past which she kept hidden

in a heart shaped locket

tucked between

breast she uninhibited


her love was reckless

but real

and that’s precisely what made her feel

more human, than most.

She smiled so sweetly, lips

like the first sip of

lemonade on a hot day that isn’t promising.

Her little differences, refreshing.

And although her life was an unfinished

road map

with fairy tale islands and highways leading

no where, you bet she had direction.

It was certain that if she aimed East, you would

follow and if she claimed West you’d never

rest until you got there.

That’s when you realized that sometimes

it takes something

beautiful like a painting,

or thong or

a pretty song or poem

or red head on a swing

to move you and

maybe, just maybe

live a little.




Came to visit dad again,

Little Havana’s humid air

lingered with my childhood


Every few months or so

his Santerian Magick compelled me

to ring that dirty doorbell,

greet his whores,

and smile politely while I hold on to

my purse like I would a new


His apartment was

a trip to the twilight zone

a blast from the past,

incense and peppermint.

Cabinets filled with trinkets and relics

you’d find at Goodwill or

a fancy vintage museum.

I kissed him hello and realized

my big, brown, impartial eyes

made me the biggest freak

in his circus.

There he was,

intimately romancing his crack pipe.

I always wondered what his secret was..

he just kept grinning.

A sort of zen I was sorry I didn’t own.

Did he not care of tomorrow

or travel

or time?

Not a care in the world from his

stained sheets

and un-fluffed pillow point of view.

The fumes of his cigarette

danced in the humid


I almost choked.

He played an old tune on his

rusty piano

but it wasn’t long before

he took another hit.

What is happiness, dad?

He knew something that I didn’t,

that’s for damn sure.

I always blamed it on my zodiac sign.

Damn Capricorns,

so dark and moody…

why couldn’t I be a care-free

Aquarius like him…

humanitarian of sorts,

he looked after these women and felt

an equal contempt for all

of them.

He grinned, and said the only profound

thing left in his post-tumorous head,


“happiness is nothing more than a fleeting moment”


I grabbed a beer and walked out the door.

A fleeting moment.



there is an infinite source,

and it is a vast

porous swirl

with every thought ever

thought up

and every creature ever


in the most


parts of our imagination.

a tunnel with no particular


and it’s empty

until you try to reach it.

if you are still and quiet

and cunning,

this source will allow

you to touch it

and become it.

the portal of wonder


through you and

beautiful beams

of nothingness will come

bursting down

like uncontrollable tides

don’t run from it.

pry your mouth

open  wide,

make a wish

and swallow.

swish these waves

tidal wave tongue,

until they turn either

sweet or sour

and when you spit it all out


creative wonder.


collective consciousness

has blessed you

and now you swim in the

solace of reassurance,

someone else

understands you.

creativity is bred this way.

a blind mother reaches out to

nothingness and gives birth

to a baby that weeps before

the agony of growing

into someone who yearns to

be worth knowing.



Avalon Graves is a 27 year old Miami native, who writes taboo poetry for the open mind and reckless heart. She’s currently majoring in Creative Writing, and working as a behavioral therapist for children with autism. Miss Graves is a fan of matcha green tea, trail blazing, and watching cult classics on rainy afternoons. You can usually find her making collage art with an old record playing in the background, usually Bob Dylan,
or Joni Mitchell.

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