katy-laurel - Hello Poetry

I return to the stillness. The space which allows for emerging energy. I see where I collected hope and pain here. My admissions of vulnerable truth. These sparks create comfort. Even in their clumsy attempts. I have just returned from the mad choral. Society had ****** me in and asked for all. I emptied my pockets of knowledge and love Hoping it would suffice. Yet, I return empty with failure. Weary and fearful of those who say they're are helping! These strange proclamations are surrounded with unspoken yet known fear. I return to the stillness. The sound of soft rain falling on maple. These reflections offer comfort as I continue up the mountain. My journey continues.

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Aug 18, 2020

Aug 18, 2020 at 12:17 PM UTC

Y. The Mountain

I return to the stillness. The space which allows for emerging energy. I see where I collected hope and pain here. My admissions of vulnerable truth. These sparks create comfort. Even in their clumsy attempts. I have just returned from the mad choral. Society had ****** me in and asked for all. I emptied my pockets of knowledge and love Hoping it would suffice. Yet, I return empty with failure. Weary and fearful of those who say they're are helping! These strange proclamations are surrounded with unspoken yet known fear. I return to the stillness. The sound of soft rain falling on maple. These reflections offer comfort as I continue up the mountain. My journey continues.

19

Life begins quietly this evening I wonder around my head as eyes absorb the outside world the orange street light dances in the blue twilight of the hottest recorded day this january (Iwonderhowtheicecapsaredoingtoday) small stars sink into city light of texas painting momentary stillness with a glimpse into another galaxy’s sun even while i keep smoking the cigarettes parents pray I have quit my body reaches into wisdom and contentment but this feeling is foreign and the realization brings anxiety. I try to gauge where I belong in all this moving quietude Golden afternoons sift in my palms My lover is searching my pockets for skin and I have no clue where to begin so the smokey lungs reach for blood start with the freckles then the stretch marks then the scars See where your fingers find home And we’ll discuss the reason fate has brought you into my arms this night

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Oct 8, 2018

Oct 8, 2018 at 8:57 PM UTC

X. Reasons For Fate

Life begins quietly this evening I wonder around my head as eyes absorb the outside world the orange street light dances in the blue twilight of the hottest recorded day this january (Iwonderhowtheicecapsaredoingtoday) small stars sink into city light of texas painting momentary stillness with a glimpse into another galaxy’s sun even while i keep smoking the cigarettes parents pray I have quit my body reaches into wisdom and contentment but this feeling is foreign and the realization brings anxiety. I try to gauge where I belong in all this moving quietude Golden afternoons sift in my palms My lover is searching my pockets for skin and I have no clue where to begin so the smokey lungs reach for blood start with the freckles then the stretch marks then the scars See where your fingers find home And we’ll discuss the reason fate has brought you into my arms this night

22

Ode To Ginsberg I walk every morning down to the bus dodging the ***** condoms and broken teeth Chanting Ginsberg to the rhythm of my walk Its actually pretty safe around here the corner is just a passionate place to live. there the vagrants dwell drinking and puffing away, light shining through their gapped smile whispering the dirtiest thoughts dipped in sweet eyes as if they were simply asking me bout the birds above. I dont know why I enjoy such peaceful violence. But I'm getting used to my home in the city One day while indulging in my addiction to smog I walked down to the corner store The old Spanish letters had been plucked off and new sparkling words read, This N That I walked in with a question on my face They had changed its spanish name because “nobody knew what tiendas even meant on this block these days” Roots that had held homes Were being pulled up without concern. I walked back with my head tilted down it felt very heavy in those days there was a street corner in austin equipped with a family, if you choose, a family made up of half a dozen vagabonds with beer in hand by 10am laughing and dancing to the sound of horns and skids and crashes and katydids and towards the end beautiful paintings adorned their outside abode. They collected lazy chairs, potted plastic plants, and enough green to smell three blocks away. They laugh harsh happy traveled laughs, and sing scratchy Blues. Occasionally letting a sunflower seed fly from their peeling lips. this dusty grime coats my drifting soul as gravity sings my name in choking clouds but as i make my way back up the block I see red and blue lights and a couch being thrown into the garbage. This city is breaking its own beauty In the name of progress. I put my hand on your book and know youd feel the same.

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Oct 8, 2018

Oct 8, 2018 at 8:56 PM UTC

W. Austin. TX

Ode To Ginsberg I walk every morning down to the bus dodging the ***** condoms and broken teeth Chanting Ginsberg to the rhythm of my walk Its actually pretty safe around here the corner is just a passionate place to live. there the vagrants dwell drinking and puffing away, light shining through their gapped smile whispering the dirtiest thoughts dipped in sweet eyes as if they were simply asking me bout the birds above. I dont know why I enjoy such peaceful violence. But I'm getting used to my home in the city One day while indulging in my addiction to smog I walked down to the corner store The old Spanish letters had been plucked off and new sparkling words read, This N That I walked in with a question on my face They had changed its spanish name because “nobody knew what tiendas even meant on this block these days” Roots that had held homes Were being pulled up without concern. I walked back with my head tilted down it felt very heavy in those days there was a street corner in austin equipped with a family, if you choose, a family made up of half a dozen vagabonds with beer in hand by 10am laughing and dancing to the sound of horns and skids and crashes and katydids and towards the end beautiful paintings adorned their outside abode. They collected lazy chairs, potted plastic plants, and enough green to smell three blocks away. They laugh harsh happy traveled laughs, and sing scratchy Blues. Occasionally letting a sunflower seed fly from their peeling lips. this dusty grime coats my drifting soul as gravity sings my name in choking clouds but as i make my way back up the block I see red and blue lights and a couch being thrown into the garbage. This city is breaking its own beauty In the name of progress. I put my hand on your book and know youd feel the same.

36

Tonight, the golden moon drips full. Shadows sing my form. A dried petal swings in the silhouette splitting the variegated shadows I bask between. The walls have ceased biting my ears and old ghosts no longer whisper lonely gibberish. Still, a hammer in my heart begs admission. I cannot ignore the clawing of my mind, there still much to gut and cultivate. One must offer libation to the moon, pregnant with primal enumerations, drain a small river of mortality. Yet as my bark has aged my familiar melancholia bloomed awareness observing my lack and wished to become reborn. My fingers freeze holding in hurricanes, I see them glow with fullness in the crescendo of moonlight. Perhaps, I will begin with the simple lack the frustration with what was and what became itself once again. The petal falls from its frame As I return to the solitude of reflective nights Such as these. Trusting I will bloom underneath shadows into holy curiosity again and again.

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Oct 8, 2018

Oct 8, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC

V. Full Moon

Tonight, the golden moon drips full. Shadows sing my form. A dried petal swings in the silhouette splitting the variegated shadows I bask between. The walls have ceased biting my ears and old ghosts no longer whisper lonely gibberish. Still, a hammer in my heart begs admission. I cannot ignore the clawing of my mind, there still much to gut and cultivate. One must offer libation to the moon, pregnant with primal enumerations, drain a small river of mortality. Yet as my bark has aged my familiar melancholia bloomed awareness observing my lack and wished to become reborn. My fingers freeze holding in hurricanes, I see them glow with fullness in the crescendo of moonlight. Perhaps, I will begin with the simple lack the frustration with what was and what became itself once again. The petal falls from its frame As I return to the solitude of reflective nights Such as these. Trusting I will bloom underneath shadows into holy curiosity again and again.

37

Last night I drove past a fawn she was laying on the road and lifting her head up slowly Stunned by an oncoming car and unable to carry her self. A day later I drove at dusk the blood red shadows framed the low clouds a large buck with a crown of time on his head bowed beneath a tree, searching for something lost. The days gather like revolving doors till I am exhausted and unable to raise my head Going too quick to comprehend all my packed belongings. I unpack my plants and books and look up the mountain searching for something in the shadows of morning, lost.

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Jan 7, 2017

Jan 7, 2017 at 11:31 PM UTC

U. The Shadows of Morning

Last night I drove past a fawn she was laying on the road and lifting her head up slowly Stunned by an oncoming car and unable to carry her self. A day later I drove at dusk the blood red shadows framed the low clouds a large buck with a crown of time on his head bowed beneath a tree, searching for something lost. The days gather like revolving doors till I am exhausted and unable to raise my head Going too quick to comprehend all my packed belongings. I unpack my plants and books and look up the mountain searching for something in the shadows of morning, lost.

21

*I have lost my voice as of late, feeling like prospero living in the island of my mind. Here's an attempt to describe how I pass my time.* there are moments when the ache overcomes the present the scratching demon inside, selfish for something I can’t pronounce and I find myself swallowing my tears over black coffee, hoping you don’t see. I look into your hazel eyes and see the frustration with age. you tell me, ‘I hate being old’ and I quietly tell you to embrace your wisdom ‘you’re only old once, nana’ you laugh and I find my place inside your sweet warble as we look around for the keys that you just put in your purse. the small girl within me reaches out and holds your shoulder lightly guiding you in and out of the slow traffic swimming in southern humidity. everything has slowed down in the past few months the decaying town I grew up in is full of molasses minded folk, and I only wish it was slower as you forget why we are here. We walk into the the cool air and I tell you we needed to leave the house. you’ve been folding the dishes and scrubbing the laundry while my grandfather yells about the TV and his inability to find his mind when they put another persons heart inside his chest. we decide to leave behind the scene of you sobbing in the sink and drink some black coffee. You and I have sat so many times wrapped in fits of laughter defying the pain of the world. I try to make simple jokes as an excuse to lose ourselves, but my new silence has grown with the summer honeysuckle and I have lost the desire to forget. We sit side by side, watching the black water slide inside the creek. You begin telling me how you finally feel relaxed. I kiss your cheek and tell you I love you. We smile, no longer needing to grasp for breathless laughter. The ache becomes a part of every moment and I breathe in the golden sadness of mortality, knowing that I am learning the art of dying in southern heat of the town I was born.

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Jun 7, 2014

Jun 7, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC

T. Taciturn Tempest

*I have lost my voice as of late, feeling like prospero living in the island of my mind. Here's an attempt to describe how I pass my time.* there are moments when the ache overcomes the present the scratching demon inside, selfish for something I can’t pronounce and I find myself swallowing my tears over black coffee, hoping you don’t see. I look into your hazel eyes and see the frustration with age. you tell me, ‘I hate being old’ and I quietly tell you to embrace your wisdom ‘you’re only old once, nana’ you laugh and I find my place inside your sweet warble as we look around for the keys that you just put in your purse. the small girl within me reaches out and holds your shoulder lightly guiding you in and out of the slow traffic swimming in southern humidity. everything has slowed down in the past few months the decaying town I grew up in is full of molasses minded folk, and I only wish it was slower as you forget why we are here. We walk into the the cool air and I tell you we needed to leave the house. you’ve been folding the dishes and scrubbing the laundry while my grandfather yells about the TV and his inability to find his mind when they put another persons heart inside his chest. we decide to leave behind the scene of you sobbing in the sink and drink some black coffee. You and I have sat so many times wrapped in fits of laughter defying the pain of the world. I try to make simple jokes as an excuse to lose ourselves, but my new silence has grown with the summer honeysuckle and I have lost the desire to forget. We sit side by side, watching the black water slide inside the creek. You begin telling me how you finally feel relaxed. I kiss your cheek and tell you I love you. We smile, no longer needing to grasp for breathless laughter. The ache becomes a part of every moment and I breathe in the golden sadness of mortality, knowing that I am learning the art of dying in southern heat of the town I was born.

35

My body has begun its chorus of holy fertile futures, it was time to stop praying for the apocalypse, we had begun to grow old. This return to my oceanic blood provokes ol' Sancho's proverbs. I become a dreamer of goats all around as I find our common nature in the salty blood of the earth. After so many years of gathering salt, from youthful pupils wild on becoming Oedipus, I finally swallowed my heart, -it had been leaping into other ribs then panicking at the site of another cage, and damaging the very thing that had become its home. I decided I couldn't bear another ****** How did this need for love become butchery? So, I recalled the ocean the way the abyss gave life to my salty motion, I've emptied my sorrow into the sea and became free. Now, my heart swims in mortal infinity. The apocalypse has come and gone. My land has begun to sing with renewal.

0

Mar 20, 2014

Mar 20, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC

S. Southern Salt

My body has begun its chorus of holy fertile futures, it was time to stop praying for the apocalypse, we had begun to grow old. This return to my oceanic blood provokes ol' Sancho's proverbs. I become a dreamer of goats all around as I find our common nature in the salty blood of the earth. After so many years of gathering salt, from youthful pupils wild on becoming Oedipus, I finally swallowed my heart, -it had been leaping into other ribs then panicking at the site of another cage, and damaging the very thing that had become its home. I decided I couldn't bear another ****** How did this need for love become butchery? So, I recalled the ocean the way the abyss gave life to my salty motion, I've emptied my sorrow into the sea and became free. Now, my heart swims in mortal infinity. The apocalypse has come and gone. My land has begun to sing with renewal.

24

Life has been quite kind to the chaos in my veins. After all the attempts to fill my lungs with tar and dirt, I am still in between the water and air, singing with fiery wonder. So, with humiliation and perspective in my learning eyes, I try to reach back and grasp truthful moments. I have lied to myself many times, It becomes difficult to separate the insecure story from my history. I am left with the light of the moon singing upon different lands of water. A collection of moments in which I can be alone with someone else, Watching the moon paint pools of clouds or dissipate over an abyss. These small monads of time contain infinite refractions of silver justice. Take a breath. I know the pain of realization is overwhelming. But learn to speak through the high tides of your own ocean. Yes, you have been hurt. Your throat is sore with those worn words. Yes, you have truly hurt others with this same pain. Your tired hands shake with ****** fists. Yes, you have laughed in the face of love and dared to sneer at those with open hearts, those who saw the sweet monster howling in your soul and wanted to hold you softly. Yes, instead of releasing the heavy burden of pride And thanking the courageous explorer, You have always swung around and released the caged wolf in your ribs, letting her shred any hope near your heart. I know all these realizations are much too late, and I am a fool for believing I’ve experienced any retribution. This is only a clumsy attempt to let you know, Im trying.

0

Mar 13, 2014

Mar 13, 2014 at 3:52 PM UTC

R. RavagedReflection

Life has been quite kind to the chaos in my veins. After all the attempts to fill my lungs with tar and dirt, I am still in between the water and air, singing with fiery wonder. So, with humiliation and perspective in my learning eyes, I try to reach back and grasp truthful moments. I have lied to myself many times, It becomes difficult to separate the insecure story from my history. I am left with the light of the moon singing upon different lands of water. A collection of moments in which I can be alone with someone else, Watching the moon paint pools of clouds or dissipate over an abyss. These small monads of time contain infinite refractions of silver justice. Take a breath. I know the pain of realization is overwhelming. But learn to speak through the high tides of your own ocean. Yes, you have been hurt. Your throat is sore with those worn words. Yes, you have truly hurt others with this same pain. Your tired hands shake with ****** fists. Yes, you have laughed in the face of love and dared to sneer at those with open hearts, those who saw the sweet monster howling in your soul and wanted to hold you softly. Yes, instead of releasing the heavy burden of pride And thanking the courageous explorer, You have always swung around and released the caged wolf in your ribs, letting her shred any hope near your heart. I know all these realizations are much too late, and I am a fool for believing I’ve experienced any retribution. This is only a clumsy attempt to let you know, Im trying.

30

Certain rhythms will provoke ghosts in old attics reeking with romance. That eternal prayer found in complete silence, begs sinners to break purity. Mortal breathes begin to dance between lips, creating poetry in sacred space. The momentary awareness of another, who craves the absorption of your soul. **** me into your lungs darling. I'll translate centuries of painful wisdom stirring in the temple of my bones. These truths begin a home in our late night dialogues circling around dangerous pasts, all those golden, fatal blades. As we make our way back to the red light of sleep, the attic leans in to touch our skulls. We respond with agony and laughter. I slide into sleep, forgetting all I need to find in your mind. Accepting the fingerprints as you press my identity upon your tongue. The restless goddess within my nature swallows the mortality in tonight's poetry. But this never lasts. Love is a distraction, an intoxication meant to entertain that ego who loves deficiency, a selfish voice who finds herself every morning in front of a decaying mirror and blames the lack of other. Learn to leave the fear behind. You alone are whole. There is poetry sewn into your veins. Underneath that sacred silence there is an original symphony waiting to find the medium of your complex truth.

0

Jan 9, 2014

Jan 9, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC

Q. Sobering Up From All That Darkness

Certain rhythms will provoke ghosts in old attics reeking with romance. That eternal prayer found in complete silence, begs sinners to break purity. Mortal breathes begin to dance between lips, creating poetry in sacred space. The momentary awareness of another, who craves the absorption of your soul. **** me into your lungs darling. I'll translate centuries of painful wisdom stirring in the temple of my bones. These truths begin a home in our late night dialogues circling around dangerous pasts, all those golden, fatal blades. As we make our way back to the red light of sleep, the attic leans in to touch our skulls. We respond with agony and laughter. I slide into sleep, forgetting all I need to find in your mind. Accepting the fingerprints as you press my identity upon your tongue. The restless goddess within my nature swallows the mortality in tonight's poetry. But this never lasts. Love is a distraction, an intoxication meant to entertain that ego who loves deficiency, a selfish voice who finds herself every morning in front of a decaying mirror and blames the lack of other. Learn to leave the fear behind. You alone are whole. There is poetry sewn into your veins. Underneath that sacred silence there is an original symphony waiting to find the medium of your complex truth.

37

Life gives us soft, fragile form in the beginning. We begin fuzzy, clumsy, blind to the blades nature bestows as knowledge. Some avoid the tree of good and evil, adjusting to the bright exposure, grasping binoculars to drink up the scene of sin. Waiting to watch which love is truth. Waiting to say who is evil in their attempt. There I am. in a shop full of knives. Hungry to ****** naivety, no matter the price. The reflective edge illuminates my soft pain, As I choose the sharpest edge to electrify my new skin. What drove mother crazy? I had to taste the apple. There was knowledge in the pain, in the experience of carving your skin with objects unable to care for your blood. You who wanted to drink my pain, sweet roots I made metal, You never deserved to be seen in horror. I have learned to stop opening the drawer, to stop carving the names of dead love. Life continues breathing, as we become strong, worn bark born to form curious skin.

0

Oct 23, 2013

Oct 23, 2013 at 4:45 AM UTC

P. Placitum Nuova

Life gives us soft, fragile form in the beginning. We begin fuzzy, clumsy, blind to the blades nature bestows as knowledge. Some avoid the tree of good and evil, adjusting to the bright exposure, grasping binoculars to drink up the scene of sin. Waiting to watch which love is truth. Waiting to say who is evil in their attempt. There I am. in a shop full of knives. Hungry to ****** naivety, no matter the price. The reflective edge illuminates my soft pain, As I choose the sharpest edge to electrify my new skin. What drove mother crazy? I had to taste the apple. There was knowledge in the pain, in the experience of carving your skin with objects unable to care for your blood. You who wanted to drink my pain, sweet roots I made metal, You never deserved to be seen in horror. I have learned to stop opening the drawer, to stop carving the names of dead love. Life continues breathing, as we become strong, worn bark born to form curious skin.

39