Author: Elisabeth Horan
Elisabeth Horan is a poet mother student lover of kind people and animals, homesteading in Vermont with her tolerant partner and two young sons. She writes to survive and survives to write - We are all battling something. Let's support each other.
Elisabeth enjoys riding horses and caring for her cats, chickens, goats and children (not necessarily in that order). She teaches at River Valley Community College in New Hampshire.
Desideratum – n. something which is needed or wanted
On a Joplin trip Winding a string around my finger Oh yeah; sweetest hues and blue of Addiction, of love of words, pastel baby What’s the point, little girl-pink tastes Like anger to me — I need nothing But satin feelings — I understand nothing — the Presence of my Read more
Surviving a suicide with my help
Forever is exhausting. Andrew is never gone… Just like we are never over Not that we are the same, and yet We are something like forever. Alive. Or dead. Does it even matter? What we do, even when in shadows. Is anyone really, ever, listening? I touch your chin as Read more
Why do I even bother
God, can I write anything lovely anymore The lark the thrush the yew the bush Tone it down, lighten it up Look in the mirror—throw up My hands and say: I can’t take it anymore; I’m not ok I’m not ok See, then, I’ve made you worry… see Me look Read more
Reminiscing 2018;
I walked straight off some pier the end of the roof — gutter baby it ended at the keyword *failure our faces kissing as if hogs to slaughter It ended at midnight I turned to stone the end of your cock – ringed-necked pheasant I always have Read more
Blank Slate
I want to tell you about the times I fell in love with you. I should say hi, First. So, hi. The first time You opened A slim door; you said, come anytime, Show me your insides. I wanted to tell you about the times I wanted to marry you. Read more
Ode to my life partner
Oh, loyal friend, I should not begin an ode Like this, without first explaining my need to write these words. How much have I hurt you? Let me count the ways. In the spring of our lives, and likely until Our dying days. Was not of malice, but something so Read more