pondering the origin of our hopes

sugar stained palm,

you holder of stillness,

you trembler of


scrape at the bottom of the coffee mug,

searching for

sins —

the answers to the questions to your


(a stifled wisdom gleans naked in the sunlight).

all the time unfurling behind you

is negated

in the now.

future and past, as present as now

with the dawn of dreams -

i remembered, i remembered, and i toasted, toasted —

to those days where i frolicked with fear

in the fields of future —

in that magic country that lay cradled in the palms of mountains

that held an ancient acquaintance with the secrets of…

mid-night stories spun with rain

I wish

that I can undress my mind of its stories,

like slipping off a dinner party dress before bed.

to feel fully

this midnight moment.

a flickering candle,

a cooling cup of tea.

past 3 am, a fresh autumn rainstorm, the patter of water ruthless on the porch roof.

knowing the unknown

everything’s too much and not enough

everything’s burning, ascending like fire, and overflowing, spilling over into all the corners like water —

everything’s alive and open —

(still, everything’s afraid)

too much much-ness and just enough space still, to hold it

everything’s contained but slipping, slipping through —



stream of consciousness

is a lazy river,

is an ocean of chaos,

is a tired brook dense with silt and old rocks, grey from all the time spent out in the sun.

stream of consciousness

is a gash of Life in a parched desert,

is the spill of soul when…

This article was birthed on a dejectedly sunny day. The kind of day where the sidewalks shimmer silver, where there’s a graciousness to everyone’s mouths at the supermarket — the kind of day that, if you don’t feel like “I’ve made it,” you don’t appreciate at all.

I’m a sucker…

why I struggle with storytelling

You meet them once in a while.

The ones with a fierce gaze of confidence and slow cadenced voice. The ones who hold the attention of the entire table, almost lazily. …

picking up the pieces

in my dreams
I was a bird
flying through a storm of ash

over a city laid bare with its longing
for ‘normal’
(a bear in a bush
roaring with the tide)

the hours are sure to undress you.

it starts out calm-
a hush of whisper over a glassy…

map the meaning

There’s just not enough hand,

To hold all this sky,

Not enough dusted land,

To hold the weight of your sigh.

There’s just not enough lip,

To form all the words,

So that they can gracefully slip,

Cry the truth like wild birds.

There’s just not enough skin,

To blanket…

Golda Fukesman

Copywriter, explorer, aspiring doula. Seeking the wild and the true🍃🌾

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