Poetry ~ A.M Trumble

Though she is known to the literary world as A.M., she doesn’t really mind if you call her Amy. Twenty-eight, newly married, and a recent graduate she is feeling like a race horse right out of the gate. She considers herself a poet mostly, but has been known on occasion to write satirical plays, “coordinate marketing” at her day job, and spout off her quirky point of view and irreverent humor. In the near future she plans to pursue an MFA in Creative writing, teach, and see her plays performed by her actor husband and friends.

At the moment she is heading up her group identity found, a pursuit for identity through writing at writing our way home. You can find her poetry, as well as other writings (if you look around) at her blog Originals. She is also a featured spoken word poet at Buddah Moskowitz’s Virtual Poetry Reading and Buddah Moskowitz’s Virtual Poetry Reading 2.0 and is published at a handful of stones.

She dwells in an apartment with her adorable husband Joel in southeastern Pennsylvania, but always has an itch to travel.




Misty jade paints a mountain.
This highest justice,
sustaining trees
is in the lush and full-
and so is an umbered seclusion,
wherein the terra breeds life,
and breathes an extraordinary creature.

Doe-like, soft, behooved
of being she is a simple
princess of nature,
one who swiftly traipses the green.
thirsty enough to uncover the river-
eager enough to soak her panting skin.

This nymph bathes in
the roll of the current,
it waves and billows over her,
and calls her Daughter.
while her tail-bone caresses the Rock,
her soul is cast down,
deep down to deep the
blue is to the black
is to her suffering,
and like tears on her (sur)face,
the waterfall rolls off the mountain.
Thus, hungry, the Jordan swallows.

her ears sing praises to the noise.
she lives in an uncluttered paradise
free from the foreign sounds
of human folly. and yet there is
no stillness. in the morning,
the fierceness of day and battle,
at night, a symphonic eco-system
that serenades her to sleep.
the drowsy lull of consistency,
her only companion.


her heart swimming soundly
each breast underflow,
her spoils are avenged by the
fairest of sons as she is captured.
Tied lengthwise like a chop
of lamb. Caught like a fish.

she is served to the Lady,
who dresses her up in fine
linen, calls her maiden
but never by name,
She says, “you, shall be
wise and avoiding
the stranger, who wishes
to steal you away from
the baking of bread,
and give you sweet
water at night.”

And so maiden is taught
to handle the silver.
to pour the wine, to adorn
the table. And one day
she is brought to the feet of the stranger
called by all, the fairest of men.
even, just, her thighs are still more majestic,
higher, than this foreign god, and the shame
hidden on his face.
her body is trampled by his fairest.
the secrets of her heart
clawing at the dust.


and in her dream there is a tree
where she turns to see a throne of
righteousness- inside the palace
where she is called Cassia.
Cassia meets a faceless
shining ladder of a Man.
He with a promise, casts
off his robe onto her, twists with her
until her veins are woven with gold
and her naked color, rhapsodic.

for a moment she remembers a clamor.
a shifty wind that is Death’s shadow,
she remembers the Jordan where her
life once lived, now dead.
she swims pleasantly on.
as she awakens, her hands are tambourines, for
there is no other wife, no concubine,
the privacy of her heart restored.
she hears her name,
she hears her name,
her name, remembered.
and she sings praises to the sound.

A.M Trumble


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