I touch your feet for a bless,
I smell your sweat for a bliss,
I open your lips for a kiss,
I reap your grains for a harvest !
you, my love, are the light of my life, and you - are ruining my writing. lately, when i sit down and try to write, all i can seem to come up with are grossly overused analogies and tired metaphors that have been recycled a thousand different times. all that flows from the end of my pen are flowers and stars and the creases that form in your forehead when you smile and how much i'd like to lose myself in the galaxies of your irises - and it's disgusting. this twilight-esque prose, this juvenile symbolism and puppy-love poetry that pours from me - is not me. i'm no Poe, no Plath, no Kerouac, but i like to think that i'm okay. however, recently the caliber of my writing has been reduced to nothing more than rainy-day romance and child's play. and god, everything rhymes. i feel like i'm sixteen again in the best way. it's because you've stayed, that you are changing everything i thought i knew about love. i catch myself absentmindedly drifting to visions of a shoebox apartment in a city somewhere and furniture shopping and even the B word (babies). that's so unlike me, that is so - amazing because nobody has ever been so serious about me and i think that maybe, baby, someday i'd like to be 80 with you - oh god. you - you are too many poems that all sound the same, but each time i read through them i somehow manage to find something i haven't read before. you are open doors and patient arms with a voice like a lullaby that resonates in the darkest corners of my mind. you are saving grace without condition and a love so deep i could go for a swim in it - and maybe that's why i'm drowning, because all i ever really learned how to do is doggy-paddle. but you are so patient. anyone else would have quit on me by now. the idea of forever has always terrified me, but the promises you make sound so real that i'm beginning to think maybe they are. baby, you, are eyes like soil and words made of rain drops, and every day we grow a little more. i adore you. i am so sorry that my meager words can't do you justice. my ineptitude is criminal, but i'm trying. and i think that i would rather be vomiting these clichés than return to the world of gray i lived in before i met you. i love you. i love you. i love you to the moon and back and every planet in between. you are the sweet to my tea and the leaves to my tree. and every song i've yet to hear but somehow i manage to follow along with. i wanna scream it from the top of a mountain or the middle of a grocery store, about this love that leaves me with butterflies in my belly and fireworks in my heart. baby, i've never been so happy to embrace mediocrity. my prose may be suffering, but my heart is soaring. writer's block has never been more welcome than when it bears your name. so wipe your feet at the door, take off your coat, and please, make yourself at home.
vienna waited for me.
i stood on my father’s feet
and put my tiny hands
in his large ones
as we danced around the livingroom
to billy joel.
i learned to read at two;
while young, my father taught me
how to gently set a record on the turntable,
move the arm, set the needle down
and i read the lyrics, memorizing:
war child, dark side of the moon, sports.
we made our fingers walk on a thin line;
we made our faces angry with grins.
he, via ian anderson, showed me
how to carry a sword and take a stand,
told me to be who i really want to be
and taught me what to do
when i join the good ship earth.
older yet, we sang duets,
his deep “by the hand, hand, take me by the hand”
to my “i wanna hear some funky dixieland—”
his “no sugar tonight”
to my “new mother nature.”
now, at fifty-six and twenty-five,
we sing about shiny teeth and having
nothin’ but a good time.
we teach the midwest
not to mess with a son of a bitch.
Who are You To Say That You are Who You Are
Honestly, just Look at Yourself in the Puddle of Rain Water Below Your Feet
are You Happy?
are You Sad
Angry at Yourself?
Confused with Feelings & Emotions that Blur Your Personality
Constantly Pumping Cold Blood Throughout The Veins of Your Body
How Do You Know the Things You Know
Today is Tomorrow.
Tomorrow was Today.
What About The Other Days i Forgot To Say?
There's No Beginning and there's Certainly No End to My Story.
You'll Probably Figure Me Out Before I Do.
I saw him laying there
still, so very still
I thought he was dead
already passed through
to the other side
Then his chest rose
struggling for breath
his eyes winced
legs pulling up into his chest
feet flailing and twitching
I could feel
the pain that ran through
his fragile, still body
cold, small, and grey
and I stood back from his bedside
my eyes still focused
on his shaking frame
Death hung heavy in the air that day
I could smell it on his skin
God was waiting
to take him home
but still he held on,
breathing and stopping
breathing and stopping
Life is strange sometimes
made even stranger by the reality
of opening oneself
to the never ending abyss
to the ever after when the rainbow has passed
I'll be seeing you,
on the other side
It was on this day in Thirty one,
That our City got this present;
A Douglas fir, nearly 20 feet,
in Rockefeller Center.
Just simple workmen giving thanks-
Not a single one percenter!
There was just a hint of tinsel
and no lights upon that tree.
Tiffany did not mold Glass stars
for common folks to see.
On that Inauguration day
No speeches certainly.
The stand was simply two by fours
Formed in a simple cross
The Evergreen a symbol
of Everlasting life, of course.
A tiny hint of sacred
Those were dark days in our nation
with so many in distress.
Was it faith or Optimism
The workers were trying to express?
Perhaps they are one and the same
Just in a different dress.
Tonight we light a grander tree
And the mayor makes a speech.
These are days when a better life
seems just beyond our reach.
No longer called a Christmas tree,
Divorced now from that Faith
I feel like something precious died
And we’re left with just the Wraith.
What do you say to a man
Who has lost his heart
Because his dream of life
Was so torn apart.
What do you say to the flowers
Whose petals and odor so sweet
Left a man begging love
At her feet.
What do you say to the world
Where love and peace are so void
Of any connection with religion.
What do you say to the political king
Who rules with the mighty button
And dreams of everyone knowing
Who is Boss.
Well, I probably say zilch
And go my walkabout way,
Waiting until the day I will
Mark an x within a circle
And try again.
I am crying because these tears are the words I will not say.
I sob because leaking out of my eyeballs is every goddamn sentence I held inside while we were fighting.
All I keep iron lipped locked up lest I explode everything with the velocity of feeling,
of pure gas fire explosions of all these secrets I keep bouncing around the inside of this concrete skin.
And just for a moment,
I don't want to apologize to anyone about
what chemical reactions are taking place in my twisted brain.
I don't want to "work things out" or "talk it through"
or yell or scream or vent to people because no one knows what to say or do except hugging
but I'm all alone in this dark room, dehydrating myself and curling into a ball small enough to fit in your chanel purse,
And I don't want you to wrap your stiff arms around me.
That's when I don't want anything more than just to collapse,
to slide into pieces and fold them all on top of each other until I can absorb into something simpler,
something that doesn't have heavy feet sentencing her to a lifetime of traveling these warped roads-
or maybe someone who can deal with the world without turning all of it into a poem,
a girl who doesn't have to fake forgiveness for rides to practice and isn't forced to worry about crossing lines and homework or turn signals or disappointing adults and landing standing tucks and being sharp at football games or homecoming dates and not pissing off my stupid "friends"-
Along with all the other everyday irrelevance that won't mean anything in 25 years.
What do I even care, anyway?
Does anyone actually care?
Isn't it all just bullshit?
But as my phone rings and rings unanswered and my doorbell stays silent
I must come to the conclusion that I am just another human being having the same damn emotions as everyone else and that, in fact,
My friends don't want to hear once again about that fight my mom and I have been waging on and off for about 3 years and how it literally drains my will to live and worms holes in my mental health.
I must not be that girl who pities herself-
the one who lets her watery-gray sadness spill over the sides and splash into other people's laps, bringing down lighthearted conversations on the quad about homecoming dresses
For God's sake, Gabrielle
keep your shit to yourself.
Splash your face with water, spray a little febreze, fetch your plastic bags and fake smiles.
No one likes a bad smell.
It's been a few months
Maybe a few less than it feels
Since you ripped us; your head and our heart
The leaves have gone from green to vibrant purples, oranges
And other colours you couldn't see
Your funeral was nice, quiet, simple and not made a big deal
We didn't bury you naturally in the forest though
With a proud Oak above your head like you wanted
That made me mad, you won't live on like you should have
You were buried in an anonymous graveyard
Which held some importance to the people that knew you least
I visited your gravestone more than a few times
Everyone, the whole group and I have
It's a cold gravestone, more ornate that you would have wanted
That simply reads your name
Followed by January. 30 1996- August 17, 2012
The 2 words and 4 numbers that add up to 4063
Don't do justice, don't sum up your life quite right
At least in our eyes it doesn't...
I know you would have just wanted your name
Or nothing at all since they killed the forest you had in mind
"The tree will live on, I will rot and my body will be used
To create a forest, to create life"
Is what you always said
But you shouldn't be surprised by all I this like I am,
Like the group is
No one it appears, ever listened to your muted voice
Halloween came and people celebrated by wearing masks over their masks as you'd say
"The ghosts and ghouls and goblins
Are much better looking when people think
Their being clever and finally letting them down
Because it's Halloween and no ones paying attention because everyone's doing it"
It wasn't the same without you
Everyone came over but it was quiet and awkward
None of us covered our masks like everyone else
Rather, we all took them off for another night
Sitting around, talking, laughing and spraying blood on the walls
I decided I'd give myself a tattoo
To remind me of you and something you said a really long time ago;
Keep your feet grounded and so I did
An arrow pointing down on my ankle
Just as a reminder
I did it with a sewing needle in my room
While the group watched and provided expert commentary
They all wanted one but they didn't
I don't care if my parents find out
And I don't care if it gets infected
I did it for a reason and I'll stand by it
It'll kill my dreams of the military
You told me but I can't say I care anymore
My dreams died when you did
I fall, helplessly into the meadow. The tall grasses embrace me with their long fingers. The soft yellow bells droop down onto my cheeks. They cover me in their sweet scent, and the warm butter sun melts onto my face. I push myself up with my arms to gaze at the sanctuary around me. A gentle breeze wisps in circles around my head. Several stray strands of hair dance on my cheeks, and catch in my eyelashes. I pull the tangles away from my face, and stand up. I am surrounded in a barrier of ancient willows and maples. They seem misplaced here, old, wrinkled, and sagging. For the rest of the meadow is a swaying sea of oddly touchable pastel flowers. I bring my hands up to my head, and touch my hair. The light is warming my agave colored hair. I step forward, and laugh melodically at the feeling beneath my feet. The soil is welcoming, and the long tentacles of the green grass tickle my toes. I realize when I look down, that my feet are bare. I forget what happened to my sandals. In a flash, the thought of how I arrived here passes through my mind. And then it’s gone.
The grass whispers and brushes, rustling a delicate sound. But apart from that, there is only one sound. Somewhere distant, somewhere unknown, my ear catches the music of my childhood. Ocean waves, pulsing against the earth. Suddenly, a current of air snags the light fabric of my dress. And with that current, like a child’s kite, I am picked up from my feet. I can feel an indescribable sensation in my stomach. It flutters like the butterflies that float around me. My feet pedal like on a bicycle, and I roll around in the magic that lifts me. My laughter rings in the sanctuary as I drift higher, up into the sky. Beyond the wall of trees, I can hardly distinguish the features of the land. Pillowy clouds lie low, and random branches from the trees sometimes peak out the tops. The horizon erupts in a splash of rose pink, mango, and turquoise. A pure, innocent beauty.
The ecstasy is abruptly interrupted. I look beneath me, and I am painfully, suddenly aware that I am floating, high above the ground beneath me. The spell is broken. My body drops, plummeting down, fast. I scrunch my eyes shut, and brace for the hit. But there is none. I cautiously open my eyes and realize I am mere inches above the ground, suspended in the current. I reach my fingers down, to kiss the earth with my fingertips. My legs and waist elegantly lower with the rest of me to the ground. I turn over onto my knees, breathing rigidly, attempting to regain my composure.
Where am I? This world, I am found in, is curious. I doubt this reality. One cannot simply escape from the world! With great doubt, I raise up my hand to cup the daffodil in my palm in front of me. It never falls into my palm. Instead, the petals begin to grain, and distort. And in a matter of seconds, it simply vanishes. In confusion, I look to the sky, and watch as the vibrant blue fades to a wan purple and cracks, like the shell of an egg.
“This can’t be real-“ I mutter to myself. The long branches of the willows evaporate their leaves, and like skeletons and bones, dry up as if submerged in acid. I stand up, and spin, desperately looking for a part of this world. Something, still alive, something animate. I twist and turn in desperation, the world around me smearing into nothing.
My breathing is rapid, and uneven. I lift my face from my pillow. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my hair sticks to my neck. I look down, still in pajamas. Lying in my bed.
I am baffled. Was this a nightmare? No. Not quite. But, was it? I scoff at my ridiculousness. Of course it wasn’t real. What am I thinking? I sigh, and lie my head back down to my pillow, and turn my head to the window. ‘Sleep again, it wasn’t real’, I tell myself. But, just as I start to shut my eyes, something catches my eye. Despite the impenetrable darkness that lurks in my bedroom, I spot something soft and yellow. Set atop my rug, lies the same delicate, yellow daffodil, waiting for me to cup it gently in my palm.