emily-watkins - Hello Poetry

Come in. Leave your shadows at the door.

0

Dec 12, 2012

Dec 12, 2012 at 3:43 AM UTC

Come in. Leave your shadows at the door.

In 2005 my father, a pastor, decided that we would house victims of Hurricane Katrina. Our beds would be given to the ones whose homes had been submerged in water and humanity. Kitty and Minnie were twins who slept with me every night. I was only a child, but I felt like a mother to these two orphaned girls who relived the horror of seeing their grandmother rotting on a bench every night. They had nightmares of their grandmother standing up from the bench with maggot infested eyes and green rotting skin coming to kiss their cheeks. They were 6 years old. Eugene was 13 and his last image of home was his father drowning in their attic yelling for him to swim out of a small hole in the ceiling. His father never learned to swim. Eugene waited on the roof of his house, now his father's tomb, for 3 days until a helicopter came. John was an 8 year old boy with black skin and silver teeth who squeezed between me and Kitty every night. He dreamt of his mother finding him, and his dream came true; I watched them walk away together. Him in awe of his mom being alive. Her drunk and high. The last time I saw him his mother was slapping him in the back of the taxi that took him away from me. I pray that they learned to overcome their nightmares. I hope every day that they learned to stand up to the ones telling them that their experience is a crutch, an excuse, to never be anything more than what their parents are. I hope they all learned to swim.

0

Dec 9, 2012

Dec 9, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC

Katrina

In 2005 my father, a pastor, decided that we would house victims of Hurricane Katrina. Our beds would be given to the ones whose homes had been submerged in water and humanity. Kitty and Minnie were twins who slept with me every night. I was only a child, but I felt like a mother to these two orphaned girls who relived the horror of seeing their grandmother rotting on a bench every night. They had nightmares of their grandmother standing up from the bench with maggot infested eyes and green rotting skin coming to kiss their cheeks. They were 6 years old. Eugene was 13 and his last image of home was his father drowning in their attic yelling for him to swim out of a small hole in the ceiling. His father never learned to swim. Eugene waited on the roof of his house, now his father's tomb, for 3 days until a helicopter came. John was an 8 year old boy with black skin and silver teeth who squeezed between me and Kitty every night. He dreamt of his mother finding him, and his dream came true; I watched them walk away together. Him in awe of his mom being alive. Her drunk and high. The last time I saw him his mother was slapping him in the back of the taxi that took him away from me. I pray that they learned to overcome their nightmares. I hope every day that they learned to stand up to the ones telling them that their experience is a crutch, an excuse, to never be anything more than what their parents are. I hope they all learned to swim.

69

In the small town I grew up in the only place I could hear poetry was on YouTube. I still think it's beautiful how I can't exit the page until the sentence is done like the interruption can be heard through my laptop.

0

Dec 6, 2012

Dec 6, 2012 at 7:24 PM UTC

There should be more poetry clubs in small, Southern towns.

In the small town I grew up in the only place I could hear poetry was on YouTube. I still think it's beautiful how I can't exit the page until the sentence is done like the interruption can be heard through my laptop.

11

When I was a girl I thought love was a guitar player with shaggy brown hair colored eyes a poet a Christian with perfect teeth. I thought love was someone who would put up with my craziness and my insecurities. I didn't know that love was ***** blonde hair and green eyes with teeth that weren't quite perfect but would shape the words "shut up" every time I plucked an insecurity like a harp string. I didn't know that love hated reading but would watch me while my eyes caressed the words he could barely read I didn't know that love would be dyslexic. But love pretends to understand the words anyways. I thought love would stand the test of time. I thought that when love picked up a uniform and an M-16, boarded a plane it would grow stronger. That was 2 years ago this past May and my place in your heart has been replaced by a patch that reads U.S. Army Airborne Ranger Sometimes love turns out to be a soldier.

0

Dec 6, 2012

Dec 6, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC

I never know what to name these things..

When I was a girl I thought love was a guitar player with shaggy brown hair colored eyes a poet a Christian with perfect teeth. I thought love was someone who would put up with my craziness and my insecurities. I didn't know that love was ***** blonde hair and green eyes with teeth that weren't quite perfect but would shape the words "shut up" every time I plucked an insecurity like a harp string. I didn't know that love hated reading but would watch me while my eyes caressed the words he could barely read I didn't know that love would be dyslexic. But love pretends to understand the words anyways. I thought love would stand the test of time. I thought that when love picked up a uniform and an M-16, boarded a plane it would grow stronger. That was 2 years ago this past May and my place in your heart has been replaced by a patch that reads U.S. Army Airborne Ranger Sometimes love turns out to be a soldier.

48

Sometimes I want to write a poem but my hands don't know how to type the stories my heart wants to speak.

0

Dec 6, 2012

Dec 6, 2012 at 12:58 AM UTC

Untitled

Sometimes I want to write a poem but my hands don't know how to type the stories my heart wants to speak.

11

The night you came home I watched you sleep; so innocent is your sleeping face. I can hardly believing that this man that I love so dearly could take the life of anyone. I walk to the kitchen barefoot, feeling the sand that has followed you home. It covers everything in a fine, gritty film, a nagging memory of the horrors you have faced. The vacuum can't make this go away. When you wake up I look into your green eyes: what have you seen that makes your stare look like that of an old man, much older than twenty?

0

Dec 4, 2012

Dec 4, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC

Sand

The night you came home I watched you sleep; so innocent is your sleeping face. I can hardly believing that this man that I love so dearly could take the life of anyone. I walk to the kitchen barefoot, feeling the sand that has followed you home. It covers everything in a fine, gritty film, a nagging memory of the horrors you have faced. The vacuum can't make this go away. When you wake up I look into your green eyes: what have you seen that makes your stare look like that of an old man, much older than twenty?

21

You are so much more than a uniform. You are battered books, creases filled with sand. The kind so fine you can't shake it out. You are midnight Skype sessions where we rant about exes and poetry and you show me on google maps where you were stationed in Afghanistan and where there used to be a village which was home to a little girl whose body was never found. You are a whiskey fueled conversation about jumping from airplanes and how much you love writing on the the night I first met you. You remember.. when we shared the bed with your best friend who passed out around 2 a.m. because he drinks so much bourbon trying to forget the things he has seen. He's only twenty years old. Soldier, you are more than a college drop out waiting for his next deployment. You are a pair of brown eyes that squint when you get too drunk and a closet filled with 87 button-up shirts, which I think is ridiculous, but you like because it makes you look classy. You are a mind filled with articles from scientific journals pictures from 9gag and a mental list of the girls you've charmed (wait, you hate that word..) into your bed because you're making up for experiences you fear you'll never have if you come back next year in a body bag. You are more than government property, a tag on a uniform or a rank, soldier. If only you could see yourself the way I see you.

0

Dec 4, 2012

Dec 4, 2012 at 2:31 PM UTC

Dear soldier

You are so much more than a uniform. You are battered books, creases filled with sand. The kind so fine you can't shake it out. You are midnight Skype sessions where we rant about exes and poetry and you show me on google maps where you were stationed in Afghanistan and where there used to be a village which was home to a little girl whose body was never found. You are a whiskey fueled conversation about jumping from airplanes and how much you love writing on the the night I first met you. You remember.. when we shared the bed with your best friend who passed out around 2 a.m. because he drinks so much bourbon trying to forget the things he has seen. He's only twenty years old. Soldier, you are more than a college drop out waiting for his next deployment. You are a pair of brown eyes that squint when you get too drunk and a closet filled with 87 button-up shirts, which I think is ridiculous, but you like because it makes you look classy. You are a mind filled with articles from scientific journals pictures from 9gag and a mental list of the girls you've charmed (wait, you hate that word..) into your bed because you're making up for experiences you fear you'll never have if you come back next year in a body bag. You are more than government property, a tag on a uniform or a rank, soldier. If only you could see yourself the way I see you.

48

"How long has it been since you've talked to him?" I don't tell them of the letter you sent entirely blacked out except for the phrases "Dear, Emily" "Love, Zachary"

0

Dec 4, 2012

Dec 4, 2012 at 4:15 AM UTC

Letters from Afghanistan

"How long has it been since you've talked to him?" I don't tell them of the letter you sent entirely blacked out except for the phrases "Dear, Emily" "Love, Zachary"

7

I wish I could ignore the camouflage backpack lurking in my closet waiting to steal you away from me again.

0

Dec 4, 2012

Dec 4, 2012 at 3:42 AM UTC

R&R