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Kelsey Griffin Poem
Claude Monet- Olive Trees in Bordighera 1884
Sun-Dappled Roots in Bordighera
The olive trees, a tapestry of age,
Kneel on the hillside, turning a new page
Of light and shadow. Not the willow's weep,
But the slow wisdom that the branches keep.
Their trunks are muscle, gnarled and iron-red,
Twisting from earth where ancient roots are spread.
A violet bruise deep in the bark's core,
Where the Mediterranean sun has pressed before.
The canopy, a thousand hurried strokes,
A restless, shivering dark that gently chokes
The fierce bright sky. Emerald and indigo dance,
Captured in paint by a fleeting, sunlit trance.
Below, the soil burns a fierce, ochre heat,
A sudden, bold orange where the shadows meet.
A fiery carpet, scattered and intense,
Reflecting brilliance, defying reticence.
No clear blue harbor, no orderly plaid,
But Impressionism in its rugged pad—
The light itself, the subject, sharp and new,
Sifting through branches, showing its mood to you.
Copyright © Kelsey Griffin | Year Posted 2025
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Kelsey Griffin Poem
The Devil’s Soliloquy in Grey
The mists do not rise by chance; they obey. They are the exhaled breath of my boredom, Curling around the jagged peaks of the Balinoks, Choking the valleys in perpetual twilight. I sit upon the high throne of Ravenloft, A needle of black stone piercing an anemic sky, And I look down upon the chessboard of Barovia. The peasants below, shivering in their hovels, Call me "The Devil" when they think the wind isn't listening. Fools. The wind is mine, too.
I remember the warmth of the sun, vaguely, Like a story told by a grandfather I never knew. I traded it for this: cold stone, eternal hunger, And the awful clarity of endless time. I traded a brother’s blood for a crown that never tarnishes, A pact sealed in the amber shadows of a forgotten temple. Now, I am the Ancient. I am the Land. My veins are the rivers, running deep and cold; My eyes are the wolves that watch from the timberline; My spies are the bats hanging like leather fruit in the eaves.
And then, there is Her. The maddening, beautiful cycle. Tatyana. By any name, the same soul, the same doomed visage, The one bright jewel I cannot keep in this sepulchral jewelry box. She returns to me through the generations, A tantalizing phantom just beyond the stained glass. Does she know, this time, in her village beneath the shadow? Does she feel my gaze like a physical weight upon her shoulder? I will burn the world to hold her again, And I will weep blood when she inevitably falls, Only to wait for the wheel to turn once more.
And now, you. The interlopers. Little heroes, stumbling through the Svalich Woods, Armed with holy symbols that feel lukewarm in this godless place, And swords that will dull against my skin. You are fresh meat for the grinder, a pleasant diversion. Come, let me test the mettle of your souls. Let me see if you break with a snap, or bend with a whimper. Accept my invitation. Dine in my halls. Play my game until the amusement fades.
Look up at the spires. Know your insignificance. You are a flickering candle in a hurricane. I am the storm that never ends.
Copyright © Kelsey Griffin | Year Posted 2025
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Kelsey Griffin Poem
We fear the government spies in the dead of night,
So we buy a wiretap to adjust the light.
We panic over microchips implanted in the skin,
While carrying a tracker where the scrolling begins.
There is no need for a fly on the wall to watch the show,
When we livestream our breakfast so the advertisers know.
Copyright © Kelsey Griffin | Year Posted 2025
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Kelsey Griffin Poem
They sell us a closet and call it a suite,
With views of the garbage that rots on the street.
The "sun-drenched" appeal is a bulb in the hall,
And "charming" just means that the ceiling might fall.
We barter our heartbeats for four plaster walls,
Ignoring the unknown collector who calls.
The ledger is hungry, the paycheck is thin,
A game where the tenants are unable to win.
So listen to prophets with gloves on their hands,
Who shouted the truth to the deaf, city lands.
It echoes in hallways where dreams go to die:
The rent is, frankly, too damn high.
Copyright © Kelsey Griffin | Year Posted 2025
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Kelsey Griffin Poem
Five Flashes of Crimson
In Agricola, where the late sun lies,
And October's gold is fading from the skies,
A fence post holds a simple, wooden line,
And hosts a sight both crimson and divine.
Not one, not two, but five bright feathered vests,
Have paused their chatter and settled on the crests.
The Northern Cardinals, with coats of fire,
Are drawn by hunger to a sweet desire.
They dip and peck at berries dark and round,
A quiet feasting, without any sound.
The male's sharp scarlet, a defiant gleam,
The female's blush, like an ember in a dream.
They come in kinship, a brief, familiar flock,
To gather fuel before the sudden clock
Of dusk arrives and chills the Mississippi air,
A vivid portrait, painted right there.
A messenger of hope, that flash of red,
A loving soul, the stories have been said.
But in that moment, nothing quite so grand,
Just five bright lives, eating from the land.
Copyright © Kelsey Griffin | Year Posted 2025
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Kelsey Griffin Poem
The Greenbrier's Tenacity
I am the root that refuses the drought. I am the vine that denies the clean edge of the saw. You curse my thorns and call me wilderness, but I am simply the will to live, unbound.
My stems are leather, supple and sharp. They climb without asking, weaving through the neat, clean rows, a dense, insistent, complicated love. I am the silent truth in the heart of the manicured yard: What is essential finds a way to endure.
My leaves are heart-shaped, glossy, and deep green, a constant, quiet declaration of presence. I do not wait for the season's approval; I am here, always, holding the space.
The root is the law: thick, stubborn, and vast. It is an anchor against the shifting soil, holding the memory of every rain and every hunger. You may cut me back to the bare earth, but the life force is only driven deeper.
When you finally surrender to my persistence, you will find the small, dark, blue-black cluster of berries. They are the food of the deep winter, a gift of unhurried survival.
I am the Greenbrier, the tough, thorny truth. I teach you that to cling is to conquer, and that the deepest strength is found in the refusal to rest.
Copyright © Kelsey Griffin | Year Posted 2025
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Kelsey Griffin Poem
The pendulum screams as it slices the air,
A blurred arc of frantic, kinetic despair.
From the pole of delight to the pole of regret,
We pay down the interest on spiritual debt.
Hot bleeds to cold, and the day bleeds to night,
A binary flicker of shadow and light.
But watch for the apex, the top of the swing,
Where gravity pauses and loses its sting.
The zero-point field where the current goes dead,
Before the next thought can infect the head.
Here is the silence that deafens the ghost,
The guest uninvited who becomes the host.
The ego is hungry, a mechanism of steel,
Grinding the grist in the turn of the wheel.
It hunts for a future, it mourns for a past,
But the gap is the anchor that holds the soul fast.
In the breach of the circuit, the spark is set free,
Not what you are, but what you will be.
We hang in the balance, unmade and unbound,
Safe from the trap, where we cannot be found.
Copyright © Kelsey Griffin | Year Posted 2025
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Kelsey Griffin Poem
I hold the glass, a heavy sphere,
And watch the seasons disappear.
A single shake, a sudden squall,
Recalls the winter of it all.
We walked through drifts of knee-deep white,
Beneath the streetlamp's amber light.
You pulled me close to block the wind,
Where warmth began and ice could end.
The flakes inside are sharp and plastic,
But memory makes them seem fantastic.
I see your breath, a ghostly cloud,
I hear your laugh, distinct and loud.
But gravity commands the snow,
To settle on the roof below.
The storm goes quiet on the shelf,
And leaves me standing by myself.
I cannot shake you back to life,
Through all the years of calm and strife.
So I just shake the globe instead,
And keep you spinning in my head.
Copyright © Kelsey Griffin | Year Posted 2025
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Kelsey Griffin Poem
No clicks on the floor
I wait for you to come in
But the hall is dark
I reach down to pet the air
And weep when I find nothing
Copyright © Kelsey Griffin | Year Posted 2025
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Kelsey Griffin Poem
The Final Bloom
No fevered fight, no anguished cry,
I simply lift my boughs to sky.
I let the cold come, sharp and deep,
A solemn vow the roots will keep.
I do not cling to fading pink,
I only bloom upon the brink,
And give the glory all away,
To crown the beauty of the day.
My strength is quiet, my roots unseen,
My giving comes when I am green.
I cast my leaves with grace and trust,
Returning color to the dust.
So learn this truth, you anxious heart,
You are a brave and vital part.
Do not resist the change you face;
Find peace within your proper place.
Be still, be whole, be brave to fade,
The promise of the root is made.
Just stand and feel the season turn,
And simply be the life you yearn.
Copyright © Kelsey Griffin | Year Posted 2025
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