This today is grey and rainy
and feels painfully like a word
meaning neither yesterday nor tomorrow
And though reason dictates
it will be one soon enough
I think it will be one of the forgettables
remembered only by this paper and these words
(and today, please, today
i need the reassurance that
i will not be the same)
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 10:39 AM UTC
Where am I?
For those who ask:
I am in the home I grew up in
Between the intersection and the train tracks
(Did you know, when I was little and up too late
I heard the whistle of the train
And I thought it was the trumpeting of angels
Come to take me in the night.)
And where am I, Lord?
Where will this be
In history’s books?
Just down the street from a post office
Built during the civil war for shipping shoes
Still open—an essential service
In a time of worry, as it was in the time of war
(There have been sixteen cases in my town
And it has not yet touched me.)
And oh, where am I, my love?
I am with my family
Keeping my hands busy
So my mind stays still
I am in bed, or on the floor,
Or in the living room, or on the porch,
Or putting grooves in the driveway
As I stop to smell the flowers
that have bloomed the same this year
as they have on every other
except this year I have someone to compare them to and
not a blossom measures up to you, my love.
Where am I?
Home
Safe—as safe as one can be
In a familiar place
All of these are true
(But the first answer that comes to my mind
Is always “still miles away from you”)
Apr 2, 2020
Apr 2, 2020 at 5:19 PM UTC
Every underwhelmment
Undid my hopes a little more
Piece by warping puzzle piece
Hacking away at innocence and
Orphaned delusionment.
Recalling this now,
Is it really any wonder that I
Can't tell euphoria from satisfaction?
Feb 4, 2020
Feb 4, 2020 at 1:50 PM UTC
Eleuthoromania
Likes to hold my hand
Even when I tell it I am taken,
Unavailable, betrothed and affianced
Tethered to a man who bets with solid things.
He says precious stones and he means gems. But I,
(Oh silly child that I am,) I
Remember when precious stones were only
Ordinary rocks with mica threads that glinted in the light.
Money moves the world, though,
And I must move with it. I am in it, after all
Not above, dwelling in some cloud, no.
I am in it.
And this marriage of necessity will happen,
(whether I dream of it or not.)
Feb 4, 2020
Feb 4, 2020 at 10:50 AM UTC
Please.
Even here; even now
as I paint a board that may yet end up scrapped
Remind me softly,
Surely,
I am here for more than passing through.
Someday does not exist in some
Tantalizing intangible form.
Even here; even now, it is in the making.
Now, with every beating heart
Conquering every shaking hand
Even here; even now
as I rest while my paint is drying.
Feb 4, 2020
Feb 4, 2020 at 9:45 AM UTC
Loving her, they say,
Is sin.
A sin that'll pull you straight to hell from the weight of it.
'look to God'
They say
And point to words of man.
'are fleeting lusts worth damning gambled souls?'
So I looked at God, my God.
My God, who tends a garden.
My God whose light is all the sun
My little leaves could ever need.
My God who steered the wind
To wrap a younger lonely girl in hugs.
My God who fills the sails of ships
My God who cares, and always has
My God who calls us children
My God who tends
With water instead of brimstone
And with rescuing palms
Not uncaring heels of boots.
I look at my God
And I look at my love.
And I say,
I'll take those odds.
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 7, 2020 at 8:32 AM UTC
The Earth is molting
And though today is a day
Marked by putting layers on
Rather than taking them off
Hidden does not mean gone.
She will shed her skins again
She will bloom and rise and blush
Rolling over in crunching leaves,
Turning her face,
And baring her arms to the sun
Giving it permission
To shine on her again.
Her seasons are only moltings
She does not lose herself in them
And watching gives me hope.
She'll reemerge
And I, like her
Will too.
Jan 6, 2020
Jan 6, 2020 at 5:08 PM UTC
I am weak
And wobble as I stand
Like a baby bird
A phoenix, perhaps
Rising from the ashes
With a bit too much smoke
Left in its lungs.
The old husk
That shell built over many days
Of spring and rocks,
Gentle grass and balmy river
When it forgot it’s name was phoenix
Has been torn off
Too soon, like a scab
And the new skin underneath
Is tender in its infant stage
Under thin and ashy feathers.
Yes, it lives
Yes, it is rising
But one cannot go
From flames to flight
In an instant.
Let it instead be overnight
And let you, sweet bird
Rest
In the meanwhile.
Jan 6, 2020
Jan 6, 2020 at 1:26 PM UTC
“Who are you?” she asks me
With her elbows on the counter
Bridging her kingdom to mine
Her eyes see past me, through me
And I stop and I stammer
Because-- don’t ask me that, I don’t know.
How should I know?
I am a fellow traveler with myself
On this long and lonely road
Growing as I go
A sparrow searching for a nest
Because the places that used to fit me
Can’t hold the ways I’ve grown
And when I find it, I’ll step through that door
Holding hands with my darkest parts
And if I’m lucky I’ll get out before
We burn this whole house down
And as it goes, the bridge of our nose
Will tan, but I’ll get sunburnt still;
From wandering through the deserts of my mind
I know that she, that me, is out there too
And just because we haven’t found us yet
Doesn’t mean we aren’t out there to find.
Our paths just haven’t crossed since they divulged
In a yellow wood I near forget
Ever since the wood was cut
Tree by tree, to make the walls
That make the bedroom in the hall
Above the stairs where I’m still hiding
All my problems, hoping I’ll be gone before they find them.
That wood which held me as I was torn asunder
The paint which soaked up silent tears for years
Can never feel like home, and is it any wonder
That I’ve tied the pink and yellow to my fears?
And have I taken the road less traveled
In hopes of finding something new?
Or am I only pressing on in spite
Inspite of how I slowly come unraveled and unglued?
Alone and lonely—yes, I am
But why change course? For all I know
I’m almost to some place where I can rest
Halfway to some sort of home
And she doesn’t blink or stammer
Her gaze was glazed, and now confused
Because all along she asked me how
I was; she wasn’t asking who.
(And in lieu of that I meant to say
“good thanks, and how are you today?”)
May 8, 2019
May 8, 2019 at 4:18 PM UTC
April showers bring May flowers
They say, they've said for ages gone
But what when April's dry as bones
Parched and bleached by desert suns
And May, her lover, weeps and groans
And the flowers blossom anyway?
May 8, 2019
May 8, 2019 at 2:42 PM UTC