Guest Poet: Angela Forret



yellowhouse flower

Mark Kerstetter, Yellowhouse Flower


golden rooms

i want you
to follow these steps
forget form in this fiction
it is the ability to move
to create action
friction between us
without going under
drowning in that made up
benediction that crossed us
holy until we spilt his water
upon dirty black soles
that always squeaked and we
knew he was upon us

i want you
to believe these things
but someone told me
your root has gone rot
you taste bitter now
vinegar traps fruitflies
bitterness wells on my tongue
sweet and your thick
molasses taps deep
do not learn anything from poets

i want you
to weave between this
and her golden plume
rid of these plastic borders
paint orchids, no, just one
for Georgia and i will cut it
open planting this final seed

i want you
to remember this memory
not to bury the roses
come winter, plant sunflowers next spring
Van Gogh painted the house
yellow, his flowers
died in blazing golds



twenty-one days

experts say
twenty-one days,
a fast learner cuts
that in half
or one quarter
if really fast.
this has no
curve. imagine a
nite ritual like
setting your watch.
adapting shouldn’t
be so easy.
not here.
the parking space
has not changed
in two days. Only
the color of cars.
i could enter blind
with no cane.
the motion sensor
revolving entrance,
then you step right
to the elevator door,
only the right door opens.
the second floor button
gets pushed with the right
elbow. walk right again.
then left, then
go down a white hallway.
today the floor
was to change.
a room with a view.
shit happens.
i continue this bad habit.
icu is a place no one
should get used to,
quick study or



We burn
into words
laid onto paper
layers upon layers
years form chapters
until a book
bound together
never guessing we’d
embalm ever after
page by page
until a God
or editor
cries “finished!”
despite the ink is
still burning.


there is nothing for you here

there is nothing for you here –
move along, this car wreck
train pile-up isn’t for the attached
the married
the lovers with 1000 friends.
this here is for the blues playing
booze craving, drowning their sorrows
to Ruth Brown dreaming about
worse days to come. every one of us
has a soul train. go on
get on board. how you get bored
says something.

you ever watch geese migrate?
look up and count – six, sixteen, two?
three? three, five, seven
means one has flown the coop.

there is brilliance in solo flight
do not read this wrong.
just don’t ask me this story
at midnight, or 4AM
when only two red converse
transverse cracked black top to
the rhythm of sad sirens calling.
forget safety, this baby is about fate.

a dream woke me last night.
lone bitch, tail low
moving slow toward an empty box
train. it took days to find her.
don’t matter, no one came to collect.



winter’s last kiss

words (yours),
a December rain pooling
inside me,

I don’t think you get it, there’s no us,
just this;

to hear (after),
covered thick with sweat,
top sheet burying our feet,
no cover left to protect;

my breath,
a willowy snake over spent;
a room gone arctic, windows wide open
to listen, crystal symphonic beauty
a rhythm, heat’s awakening ache;

climatic change, severe ;
frozen sleet drowning out all noise
except the snap of soft, naked limbs

i remember watching, (i wept)
winter’s last kiss ~

all poems ©Angela Forret Used by permission.

Angela’s poems and prose and poem-prose hybrids teach me not to fear the extemporaneous, or to expose a raw nerve. Visit Angela at Yellow House Cafe

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4 Responses to Guest Poet: Angela Forret

  1. hedgewitch says:

    Been too long since I read Angela, since I stopped posting at dVerse a few years ago…good to read her exceptional, quirky and character-filled work again. I’m running atm but will be back again when I can listen to the readings.

  2. Susan Scheid says:

    Ah, wonderful! So many things to admire here. I’ll pick one, one of those passages that makes a gorgeous, heart-stopping interruption to the flow:

    I don’t think you get it, there’s no us,
    just this;

  3. angela says:

    Mark ~ as I stated when you asked, I am honored. Though I find it hard to read my own work, let alone listen to someone else read it aloud, it was an amazing journey to listen (and read) again. So many of these are dashed under a half-consciousness, never to be revisited – not remembering writing, yet, your readings were amazing for I would swear that you must know me in real time- that you were here when I wrote them – for your delivery mimicked the voice in my head. You are an amazing artist….through and through – thank you, my friend for bringing these words to life again. ~ angela

    • It’s a pleasure to read poems like these aloud, and thanks for allowing me to do so. Each one has its own presence and atmosphere–so palpable–I did feel like I was there in each one.

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