Monday, March 6, 2017

Song of Songs

Who with legs and mind upon her.
Who, with smile and laughter like his.
Who, with practical mechanics
and economics like theirs.
Who, with drugs and music in them.
Who, with a nude nature,
cloth-less to western civilization.
Who, with foreign accents,
who accepts a foreign grasp of hand.
Who, with plump cheeks
and toothy smile.
Who, with thighs that quiver,
with toes a-dancing; climaxing.
Who, with pale blue eyes,
with freckled cheeks,
with crooked teeth,
with lazy eye,
with basketball limbs,
with political thoughts,
with strong opinions,
with bookish desires,
with irrational thoughts
and logical logistics in mind.
Who, with lovely nipples
dressed upon small or ample breasts.
Who, with toes he cherishes,
and a head he adores.
Who, with an ass he cannot help but look at.
Who, with hair he runs his fingers through.
Who, with a figue he could study forever,
its features gradually changing over time.
Who, with beautiful speaking voice
and something to speak of;
with rapturous singing voice
and something to sing about.
Who, with soft navel
upon which he may rest his head.
Who, with brooding mind and natural anxiety.
Who, with not necessarily god on their side,
but instead natural divinity and grace.
Who, who he cannot imagine living without:
who are you?

Aaron C. Molden

Thursday, March 2, 2017

Mount Moran

I see Mount Moran everyday,
in the wrinkles of blankets
and the textures of ceilings.
I see that broad glacial,
and iron expanse
in the everyday shifting
of all that is banal in this world.
Moran is all the mundane movements
of this world multiplied into millions,
then formed into something unspeakable;
incredible; almost alien;
both beautiful and perilous.
I see it in my dreams reflected back
upon the waters of Jackson lake,
like some twin mountain
of an upside down underworld
not yet discover by us,
both consecraters and desecraters.
I see that mountain in grains of wood
and the writhing of a woman's hair
upon her bed sheets.
I see the foothills beside her ablaze
so beautiful in the moment,
both smoke and clouds fusing.
I see Mount Moran in my dreams.
I see her and want to see again.

Aaron C. Molden

Monday, December 12, 2016

Untitled Eros

I am honestly scared of losing her completely
and, thus, losing what is also mine;
the voyeurism of bearing witness;
touching her and making her skin my own.
This women -tangible, ideal-
evaporating away with distance.

Aaron C. Molden 

Thursday, February 11, 2016

The World is Alive

The world is alive. Despite the ice and the rain it remains alive. Touching green moss that feels like carpet on both large and small stones, not knowing if they will shift under my feet, I jump across the creek; a roaring waterfall behind me. The world is alive and ready to withstand my foot print, whether it is light or heavy. My foot print matters as much as the tree that has fallen and been washed away in my absence. Today was good, despite December's traditionally ominous nature. The world is alive with those I am with, jumping and climbing, ascending and descending, in front of me, next to me, behind me; beautiful creatures appreciating the big things that lie hidden under, behind, and between this facade of civilization and man's control. The world is alive; it is more robust than any of us and is willing to destroy us. Despite our adamant attempts to subdue it, it remains patient and willing to ignore us. It takes hold of the land that is it's body, that is it's skin, with scars both natural and man made; cutting and jutting proudly in dirt and mud and rock and wood and green things and continues, always, to grow. The world is alive despite what you or I may believe.

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

A Love Poem

I am sometimes ashamed; sometimes elated
you are always in my thoughts.
Awkward, I stumble forth, trying to impress upon you
how I truly feel, and often I fail,
but sometimes I do not.
You do not deserve such praise I give you in my thoughts,
such worship.
And you do not deserve such scorn I conger silently
towards you with an emotion so foolish as jealousy.
I wish I were as charming as I believe I can be,
but, of course, I know I am all elbows and knees
when I reach for you and your embrace.
How could I know what to do
if I do not know what to do with myself?
And there you still are
due to tragic or bucolic happenstance
and luck, and possible cosmic intervention
(I am not so skeptical of such serendipitous belief
when I see your face) smiling; staring pensively;
laughing; crying.
I am prone to loving humanity
while still keeping my distance.
Much of the time I am happily or pitifully solitary.
I worry incessantly and apparently act slowly...
Sometimes too slow.
But I do write.
I write out of necessity.
A blank piece of paper is the best way
for me to confront what I believe I must do.
It is without social stigmas, prejudices, politics,
and I can always simply throw it away
if I believe it has no value
other than using it to start a fire.
I love you.
I believe in the strength of that word
as much as I believe in the strength of hate.
I could annotate these words
explaining who or what helped me
understand these feelings.
I will not because for a very long time
I have believed they could never be true again.
Hurt can be strong too. It's a very strong word
and it seems to be the diametric opposite of trust.
I trust you.
I try not to be selfish with you,
but you are one of the few people in my life
I feel the urge to be selfish about.
I don't have the ability to apologize for that
so I will say sorry about the inability.
Be well, beautiful woman;
I hope you won 't one day forget me.

Aaron C. Molden

Sunday, November 22, 2015


You smile at him as he lights your cigarette,
but you've seen the blood on his knuckles
that wasn't there before that night.
The blood summoned by his fist
punching the bathroom wall of the bar
instead of that man's face.
You see the blood and know
he loves you too much in the wrong way.

Aaron Molden

Sunday, September 13, 2015


Humanity's religion is greed and pride.
My religion is humanity, but not as it is.
It is a humanity I foolishly believe
we are capable of achieving.
I did not create this religion.
I believe I stand on the shoulders
of flawed and troubled genius's
whose disappointment with humanity
could not sway their love for it.
The shoulders of those tested for their beliefs
because they had no use for greed
and believed that pride is something earned,
not assumed.
The shoulders of those who would choose
a view of the mountains
over a one hundred dollar bill,
and would never believe anyone
should have to pay a premium for such a view.
There are legacies of pride.
There are legacies of greed.
There are legacies of those
who have found success in greed and pride,
but still remain unfulfilled.
Then there are the legacies left behind
by these genius's, whose shoulders
I feebly stand upon with these words,
that give me the ability to continue believing,
foolishly, in humanity.

Aaron C. Molden