Apryl Skies’ poetry is luminous and emotionally charged, weaving vivid imagery with a dreamlike sense of wonder. Her work explores love, loss, nature, and the fragile beauty of human connection, often blurring the line between reality and imagination. With a lyrical voice and striking metaphors, Skies captures fleeting moments of passion and melancholy, turning them into timeless reflections on life’s mysteries. Her poems invite readers to feel deeply, see the world with new eyes, and embrace the magic hidden in ordinary experiences. Each piece resonates with both vulnerability and strength, leaving a lasting impression of beauty and hope.Today we will read her five poems.
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| Apryl Skies |
A Stone Grows Cold in my Gut
Because a child
is a tiny universe
wanting to believe
there is more to existence
than chance or circumstance
because a woman
was our first true residence
but now our lights
have dimmed and our homes
are no longer safe
A stone grows cold in my gut
because a man
can no longer fight with dignity
under the constant strain of injustice
when the only chance
of survival is survival itself
because humans
suffer in silence when greed
is the new universal currency
and because it is easier
to pivot our eyes and hearts away
than face our own shortfalls
A stone grows cold in my gut
because humanity
has more gravitas than fragile ego,
more depth than our dying oceans
and without humanity,
we dig our own shallow graves.
RUBY CELOSIA
I brush my fingers
through your hair
while you sleep
because dynamics here have shifted
you are now the fragile bird
of forgotten flight
but tonight, I am the gatekeeper
the protector of moonbeams
and the forest you call home
I bring to you ruby celosia
I am the one who wishes
it wasn’t so
ROCKET MAN
he has become his own
house of cards
fighting the elements
shooting from the waist
his nervous laughter
collects in glass jars beside
his children’s tears
and wishes half granted.
he is the ghost of past selves
the madman pacing circles
in the white noise
he shakes a pocket
full of moonbeams
his bridge to the unseen
his long white beard
catches his obscure words
before they plummet
to a lower frequency
he is Rocket man
in a canary yellow race to the finish
he never remembers our names
everyone is a burning effigy
on the barrreling
meteorite of memory
i am my own evil twin
the stoic gatekeeper
of peculiar biographies
and the bringer of light
draping morning across
the thresholds of dawn
i am she who strolls
long after midnight in the ICU
the one who never wins
the ghost in my coffee cup
plays a cruel hand
he is both king and clown
in this waking dream
aristocrats and court jesters
all gather at the dinner table
the queen has fallen
from her throne
time and space slips
through his bony digits
his cognition paper-thin
ready to ignite
complex engines of loss.
his glass jar of laughter
crashes to the floor
as dragons bite
the toes of Rocket man’s
jigsaw reality.
115 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT
I tickle Mexico
to return to you
across desert horizons
of saguaros and mesquite
miles of rippling mirage
trundling onto this tired highway,
my bridge back home…
And I could not love you more
as I lean heavy into your indifference,
once my soft place to land
now a shattered citadel
of infinite distances
And those raw truths
that continue to burn and consume
our existence and all
these haunting stars above
revealing all our unremarkable postures
How very foolish we are to think
any one of us worthy of crown.
THAT BOURBON STREET KEYCHAIN
for MJM, wherever you are…
His unique brand of armor was
a certain ambivalence
this was his phantom limb,
an impatient back seat driver,
an unhinged hitch hiker
with a dull blade
and a criminal record.
He was a bold contender of ethics
rooted for the underdog
sober suited him like
an ill-fitting Armani,
itch without rhythm
each day a challenge,
a new war on ego
But today he wanders unlost
through the doors
of a fragmented Kind of Blue
with one last turn of key
that profound final spin,
skewing reality like gypsy tea
The gentleman’s dark figure
in the doorway is always patient,
standing with hands clasped
a key to your apartment still in the door
with that Bourbon Street keychain
hanging from a vintage brass hook
left to sway upon fixed anchor
you lie there
a perfect storm of silence,
two splintered drumsticks
in your back pocket,
a burned copy of Rain Dogs
clasp loosely in your left hand
while Ken Burn’s Jazz documentary
plays on a loop
but ambiance fails to silence
the raw siren of your departure
I collect my things
and lock the door behind me.
BIOGRAPHY:
Apryl Skies is a California native, an award-winning Author and Filmmaker, founder of Edgar & Lenore's Publishing House. Skies’ writing is highly aesthetic, lyrical and provocative. She now resides among the ancient saguaros, colorful street art and opulent monsoon skies of Tucson AZ.
Books by Apryl Skies
- A Song Beneath Silence
- Skye the Troll & Other Fairy Tales
- Edgar Allan Poet - Journal #1-3 (Editor)
- Elements & Angels – Poems (UNPUBLISHED)
