"The trees have already begun to senesce"
my professor says, as she indicates
the oak whose leaves have been colored to dirt.
And a chord is struck in me,
for without her definition
I know what it is to senesce.
This is what it is to shed my leaves,
to watch their fingers wither and release
my autumn comes crisp
and crunches under rubber soles,
it feels like a barren womb.
All I give birth to is empty spaces
between fingers of dusk and
silhouettes of dark against light.
Crookedness is my legacy, and exposure is my blight.
And yet if I am like those dying branches
then I too must come awake again.
To senesce is to die, yet only for a time
spring is ahead, and she is waiting.
And I will follow,
follow that thought like deer prints in the snow,
like the sparrow's straining song,
like green blades lifting their arms,
like the smell of the earth swallowing the rain,
like there is a time when death will not call my name so sweetly
that I choose the dream over waking.
That I too will shed my ice
and become heavy with the weight
of fragrant flowers.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC
Throwing stones at the prickling green
of cacti staring at our dangling toes,
we enter and touch on a tender spot,
and for once forget the irritating sharpness
of our last dance together.
Focusing attention to our aim,
we allow the delicate swords of our targets to captivate
our eyes away from stinging cheeks,
and permit the abrupt arching of our arms to lessen
the biting rawness of the swelling sun.
Tired winter plays hide and seek,
and we take our time to count
each and every c l i n g i n g drop of water and light.
I stop short--as I refuse to disturb
a single pebble,
teetering against the slightest part of a thorn,
and against every odd;
gravity embraces it to stay.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 6:45 PM UTC
*Nothing's ever stayed
until it comes to you
Turn my eyes away
from things that surely fade
Turn my eyes to you*
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
Every sky I see, pulls my heart.
It's a perfect poem, with all of it's stray marks.
It's all these little details, make me ache,
as in a dream I never want to wake.
Causes me to wish I could lay down,
watch the clouds as they dance in tune with sound.
Every movement causes such a beautiful mess;
nothing I'd ever add could make it more or less.
Sometimes I test the souls that are nearby,
Look, a small invitation to see the sky.
Usually confusion says, Okay?
*I don't see anything extraordinary today.
No birds, no planes, no faraway storms,
the only thing I see, is clouds for sure.*
I never say words, because I know it's true,
I could never make them Love it like I do.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 11:03 PM UTC
I don't remember how it felt to be unaware,
to dive into emotion and action without even considering my own limbs.
That flying grace of abandon,
that untainted rapture of a child,
the universal understanding that the world can be fixed with a kiss.
I don't remember what it felt like to keep running,
to be blind to how I was affecting the world.
So soon did they make it clear how I didn't fit,
with broad gait I tripped over the boxes they intended for me.
Conscientious, I cowered and made myself small so I could squeeze in,
accommodating to their disapproval.
How could I have forsaken my youth so swiftly?
I cherish it in the eyes of the little one I know.
That rushing movement of joy,
I want her to keep running and leave me behind.
So that maybe, when she looks back, as I am now,
she'll grasp that moment, throw her head back, and laugh.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 10:57 PM UTC
Clumsy ink from a feathered quill,
spreads a bit, and then it's still.
I'm not sure if you'll understand,
but I'll sing it for you, so you can.
Laughing lines from fingers stained,
the loss of ink is but a gain,
when I tend to remember smiled sighs
memories of crinkling eyes.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 12:32 AM UTC