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3d · 31
Rations of Light
Corey 3d
There’s that theory that people
only have a certain amount of light
to give before they need to recharge.
Given to anyone, in rations,
in parts by the million,
in trust, and love,
and jetted brilliance.
Give and take; push and pull.
But while my rations spread thin;
given to mother, father, brother,
friends, family, lover,
the dog I see on the street,
the plants growing in my room,
to the neighbors, coworkers,
the people handing out perfume.
to the books, the poems,
the music I play in my sleep;
I feel like I’m giving out my light by the heap.
An even spread, a tiny amount to everyone.
I feel like I’m treading water.
Your rations for me, well,
how do you have that much left?
How do you ration for grass and bugs,
for bees and trees and birds and lungs,
for printed shirts and coffee mugs,
and still give me so much?
How do you ration for finer things,
the kind that only your rich friends bring,
for park benches and silly string,
but my portion stays untouched.
How do you ration for food you eat,
for whistling lips and calloused feet,
and when you finally start to feel complete
another round of rations go out.
While I simply have none left to lend,
I keep on trying with an empty tank,
empty rations, and empty promises to a friend.
You give the times more than I can give
and get scraps from me in return.
Give and take; push and pull;
but the balance has long since burned.
You say I owe you nothing more.
You say I have given enough.
You say there’s one ration I’m forgetting;
myself.
You say that ration feeds the others.
You say, in time, your light will grow.
You said I asked you a long time ago for help
but when you gave me the solution I did not listen
and instead struggled harder, longer, to show
the people, things, places, the light I had.
You said my light has dimmed,
but of course, will grow.
Corey 4d
Every evening I walk. Every evening I take my bag of seed, hike down the pass, cross the creak. Every evening I go to the field with a ***** in hand, crouch down in the dirt, plant handfuls of seeds until the sun goes down. Every evening I lie in the dark.
On some evenings it snows. On some evenings the sky is grey, the river is slow and shallow. On some evenings I hum the whole way there, and others I need to convince myself to go.
I’ve never missed a day though. I never forgotten to buy the seeds, though the worker always gives me a funny look. I don’t always bring my *****, sometimes I like to feel the dirt, the wild grass.
I remember my father took my down to the water to look for crawfish.  We did this many times. Once we took one home, put it in out fish tank. It lasted a few days before it attacked our fish, we brought it back to the creak. My brother and i used to wade up stream as far as we dared. We never told mother. My best friend and I would wade down stream to the sewer pipes. We never told father. It was my cousin who first walked right through to the other side. It wasn’t said that we shouldn’t, but we didn’t.
Walked right into the woods, the thick of it. The tall grass, all of it. Winding path of dirt and stone and dead mice the outdoor cats hunted for the sport of it. We pushed branches out of way, crawled over boulders, and stopped where the path split. He asked me which way to go and I had to admit that I had never been here before.
Though now it’ so familiar.
Every evening I take the left path. Every evening I pass the willow tree, the old hunting stand, the decaying fence. Every evening I make it to the open field and remember the first time.
It was a late August heat, the sun hanging low in the sky casting light in horizontal rays across the field. A thousand crickets chirping while the gnats irritated the eyes. The grass danced in the wind like ants move in patterns, while the birds sang from the far tree line. The bees hopped from plant to plant collecting their harvest. The grass rose to our knees and weeds dominated landscape. Where there weren’t leaves, flowers. They were purple.
So purple.
Then black.
They said these cases aren’t usually closed. It’s not worth the effort to find someone who started a forest fire if it did little to no harm. The land belonged to no one after all. But they don’t see the harm. They’re blind to it.
My father says we were fortunate to have seen the smoke when we did, no harm no foul, there was nothing there. He says this to my mother, not me. I spent years trying to get him to see it, he would never cross the creak. My mother says she had seen smoke coming from that direction many times before and thought nothing of it, said nothing to anyone. My brother didn’t find the same beauty in it as me. He was older, liked being outside less. My cousin remembers that day fondly but it was the only time he was there, and he remembers it incorrectly mostly.
Eventually I moved out. Eventually I thought less about the field. Eventually I stopped visiting my parents to forget it entirely. They caught the kid when another fire reached my parents house. They moved. Eventually the land sold. Eventually the house was demolished, no contractors got permission to build. They tried a shopping mall, the tried a neighborhood, they tried local airport; nothing. Eventually they sold the land, I bought it.
I went down to the creak and crossed it without hesitation. Up the hill, into the woods, the left path, the willow tree, the hunting stand, the decaying fence, the wide open field.
Every evening I come here and reflect on the past. Every evening I come here and plant seeds of all the native plants. Every evening there is nothing to show for it. Every evening I know that my work is not done. Every evening I know I must continue to plant so that I may grow.
Corey 5d
Tea in the morning. Stretch the bed away. A jog through the neighborhood in the heavy morning light. Shower off the sweat, cold water on the hot days, I rest my head against the tile and forget to wash my hair, brush my teeth.
Clean my face. Breathe in deep. Swallow my medicine for the hundredth time. A few drops for the plants. A few drops for my eyes. A few drops of the lotion bottle when I’m trying to reapply.
There's a word that escapes me. There’s a word for going through the motions in such a way that you are exhilarated in your content. There’s a word for wanting your back on the floor and legs up the wall. Feet in the air. Lungs under pressure. Tight in the hamstrings and the lower back.
The doorbell rings, the dog barks, the lawnmower outside gets louder by the minute. Anxiety drives up the volume. The toaster snaps, the eggs sizzle, the air conditioning hums, the garage door opens, closes, the wind hurries past, the fly in the other room hits the window pain over and over again.
Did you say good morning? Did you say goodbye? Did you say have a nice day, I’ll see you tonight?
Did you say I love you? Did you say it twice?
Pick up a book, read a few words, get up and pace around for an hour. Stand completely still for the next. Lie outside. Photosynthesize: the birds are too loud, neighbors too talkative, bees buzzing by your ears.
Scrub off the feeling of disgust in the shower. The feeling of being overwhelmed. The feeling of sadness, hatred, pain. The feeling of complacency. Scrub off the feeling of needing to make accomplishments throughout the day.
I start the oven. Prepare the dish. Chop the scallops. Chop the beef. Mix the sauce in a large bowl. Wash my hands. Twice. Three times. A drop of meat in a searing pan. A drop of salt. A drop of doubt inside myself. Taste the meat. Breathe in slowly. Clean the kitchen sink.
Clean the table. Clean the chairs. The dog starts barking. Fly hits the window. The garage door opens, closes. Greetings. Embrace. Soft skin. Light kiss.
Clanking. Carving. Chewing. Calming.
Scrubbing. Splashing. Steadying.
Talking. Quieting.
Quieting.

Quieting.


Comforting.




Tea in the morning. Stretch yesterday away. A jog through the neighborhood in the soft morning light. Shower off the sweat, cold water on the good days, I wash my hair, brush my teeth.
Clean my face. Breathe in deep. Swallow my medicine for the hundredth time. Water the plants. Water my eyes. Water the dirt where my problems lie.
There's a word that escapes me. There’s a word for going through the motions in such a way that you are so far deep in a rut, you can't see the light. There’s a word for wanting your back on the floor and legs up the wall. Feet in the air. Lungs under pressure. There's a word for the person who can convince you to stand up. There's a word for the rush of blood to the head. A word for the small victories. A word for good days and bad days. A word for saying thank you a thousand times over. There's a word that gets stuck on a loop in my head. A word that encourages me to get out of bed.
May 29 · 64
Greenhouse
Corey May 29
I cut off a piece of my plant and propagate it, but I’ve done
                                           this so many times I don't have an empty ***,
       so I offer the clipping to you which you accept.
                               I'm running out of space in my room. The shelves are dark walnut, the walls are ice-y white, the book that sits on the
                             nightstand is creased at every page.

You visit twice a week and we talk about
                                                interior design and the way a yellow
                           throw can liven up a room. You want to get out more but sometimes struggle to find the motivation to move.
          I wanted to name my daughter something regal and eloquent
                                                  but you don’t like my options so we
                                                                ­  brainstorm for hours.

                                                      We count the stars, you ask for more.
                     A new home. A large backyard.
Build a greenhouse with reclaimed wood. Think about the rain
                                  on the windows. Think about the oxygen. Think
                                         about the energy the plants give off.

                       The house is full of light, surfaces regularly cleaned, the magazine on the coffee table is about jazz. You laugh out loud,
                   you dance in the hallway.
                                                   A painting hanging. A **** drawing.
The washroom with white honeycomb tile.
                         A cup of tea when you’re feeling anxious, a cup tea
                                           swaddled in a blanket, a cup of tea and we crawl into bed.
May 29 · 31
Untitled
Corey May 29
you told me once that i was nothing more than second-hand
I asked you please don’t take my borrowed heart for something dammed
It’s been working day and night for a long time now
Beating through the longest winter and an historic drought

I tell myself over and over that I’m ready to mend
But I’m scared to ask for help in fear I’ll cry instead
And when you pull me under I can’t help but let myself drown
wondering who will be there when my body is found

I’ve got scratches on my windows and bruises on my knees.
Through all your ******* innuendos, can you hear my pleas?
My voice is too weak to shout “this heart belongs to me”
When will I be free
Corey May 28
on that fourth night we talked about all the things
that make us unbearably sad; as if the weight
of the world pressed down on our bones.

you talked about the uncertainty of the future.
how when you think you finally know
what your life may shape up to be, you’re
flushed with doubts and insecurities.
Those insecurities that snake their way into
different aspects of your mind,
causing you to go from worrying about your
career path to thinking about your figure,
or your past life choices.

I simply said that I did not like all of the construction
going on around my house. that when I looked
outside I saw trees struggling to grow under the
shadow of buildings and constant trimming.
and that when I drove down the road
which used to be two lanes, now six,
I think about all the grass ripped up,
and the bugs pounded into the dirt, and
the animals evicted.
It’s a simple thing for us to expand our footprint,
not so simple the emotional baggage.

of course
you thought I didn’t understand the conversation
but I’ve never been one to be forthright.
I feel the weight of the world as a constant
and unlike enduring Atlas, I have crumbled long ago
May 24 · 141
Untitled
Corey May 24
always quiet when
my throat aches

always silent
while my mind raves
May 24 · 192
Untitled
Corey May 24
my heart – in pieces – I give to you.

do not shape it. do not mend it.
just hold it.

I have thrown it at the walls countless times.
I have torn pieces off to give away.
I drained it for the moon but burned it in the sun.

it is damaged. it is defeated.
don’t fix it.

my heart – as it is – I give to you
May 24 · 22
A Mediant
Corey May 24
Who am I to ask for more;
a selfish man who does not give
what little he has left.
But the woman owes?
She, as splintered as I,
but giving her whole.
She attacks in my sleep,
holds me by my neck,
and I’m fighting for dignity;
and she is there, also
fighting the assailant.
Yet,
I have the audacity to ask her
if she will help me.
To be a third woman.
As if the first  –
a fiction,
and the second –
utterly selfless,
we’re not enough.
The third –
a mediant,
would bring balance.
But I cannot ask for more
when I create the splinters
and am blind to the whole.
May 24 · 20
Untitled
Corey May 24
Each time your heart opens
I take more than I deserve;
rip the warmth from it’s core
and carry it as my own.
I steal the passion from your eyes;
tenderness from your lips,
then ask you for more, more –
Mar 28 · 128
I Too, A Child
Corey Mar 28
I think about old friends often:
youthful and carefree, and wonder if they

think of me the same way, late at night.
They’re grown up with kids of their own, perhaps

less energetic than when I knew them, bills and
mortgages; gardens that need tending: dandelions

poking through their lawn like cancer cells
silently swimming through bodies. Then hidden

in cigarettes and coughed up lung of naïve
children but now bright yellow and filling

their picture perfect yard. I still think of them
as the children we were: sneaking out of houses

to light off fireworks. I think of myself then:
bright innocent smile, head cocked back

holding my chin up high to show the world
I didn’t care what it thought: I too, a child.
Mar 11 · 102
Finally
Corey Mar 11
Most of the time life is filled with uncertainty.
You don’t know where your next paycheck is going to come from and whether or not you card will be declined; or if it is going to rain tomorrow evening; or if you car is going to last one more road trip.

Clarity comes sporadically in ways you cannot imagine.
One day, everything seems so unknown but then that same night you’re writing that book you always said you would; or searching for apartments; or cleaning the house; or budgeting; or planning; or sleeping, finally.

You’re proofreading over and over again for every tiny error, reading forwards and backwards. You’re considering where you’re going to work and how often to afford rent; and how you’ll fit all your stuff inside the small spaces. You’re finding ways to keep the ants away from your houseplants. You’re deciding what you’re going to save your money for, how much, how long. You’re thinking about the future; three years, five years, ten down the line; about retirement.

And then all of a sudden it’s over. And you’re still in bed in your parents house wondering how the hell you’re going to get out of here and make it in a world that sets you up for failure.
Feb 15 · 232
°
Corey Feb 15
°
I don’t really do forever..
but man.

I will forever be in love with the moon
Jan 29 · 117
The World
Corey Jan 29
This is the way the world turns
With finger tips dragging through oceans;
land cracking under unseen weight
beaten down, shattered and broken

Every human being is chosen
Whether we save ourselves or each other
Whatever we do, we set into motion
and give to the generations ahead

light, that shines and warms the ground
and breath, the wind on the oceans
This is the way the world turns
over again until it opens
Jan 28 · 251
Watered Down Sorrow
Corey Jan 28
I'll lie in the tub until the water seeps into my lungs
Dec 2019 · 72
°
Corey Dec 2019
°
just as a magnificent sun set lasts such short time, the moon too changes too quickly
Nov 2019 · 264
Untitled
Corey Nov 2019
Oh splendor your figure,
which casts shadow
across the open field.
In harmony with the wind;
you sway.

You seek refuge in others
as they seek refuge in you;
praying in your presence,
crying or laughing,

until they have exhausted themselves.
And then what must they do
but leave you to be

alone, swaying, breathing;
beautifully, harmoniously

you remain...

grounded...
Nov 2019 · 199
gentle rays
Corey Nov 2019
my vision blurs with the faint haze that lingers in the air
a supple, weighty orange that lays softly on my skin
and distantly, i see melting greens and pinks

it’s warm. but not enough to warm me inside.
just enough to create goosebumps on my arms
and it’s gentle. intimate. like a comforter, it swaddles me.

it’s silent outside.

the kind of quiet only the early morning knows
the birds are just waking, but the sun has been rising;
gentle rays fill in the colors of the day with velvety light
Sep 2019 · 270
Fish in the Sea
Corey Sep 2019
All of these dandelions
it’s hard to find a flower
deceptive, camouflaged,
simply not yet bloomed

In the emerging heat of Spring
I’m waiting for April showers
By the time they finally come
they pour into my wound

In the end
the love was doomed
Aug 2019 · 511
Hiding, Not Hiding
Corey Aug 2019
in costume, in hiding,
and in all things deceptive
thriving in the unrevealed

she’s popular, happy,
and asking for attention
waiting for a moment alone

she wants to be crying,
naked, and lying in her bed
under covers, like a shield

in hiding, in costume
not from the world around
but from her, and her alone
Aug 2019 · 400
Among the Noise
Corey Aug 2019
In the bustling city with cars honking
and sirens wailing, people shouting
and bottles breaking. Where the
lights pollute the air every night
and I wake up at three am
wondering if it’s morning,
or just another broken night:
I still hear you.

In late winter when the snow falls
silently, and the sun lingers
in the sky, lifelessly. When the
nights drag on and days are short
enough to make me wonder
why I keep getting up
before the darkness is filled:
I still see you.

In sorrow that surrounds my thoughts
as they collapse in on themselves,
I wonder what I did to deserve
someone who will pick me up
and hold me among the noise
around me, and in my head.
Through the noise and deafening silence:
I still feel you.
Jun 2019 · 193
Seep
Corey Jun 2019
Don’t let it control you
don’t let it seep in
think about the honey bee smothered in pollen
the way grass flows in the wind
flowers blooming in spring time,
growing
the birds singing in the morning light
and dancing through the sky
the trees constantly being reborn
after becoming barren
through harsh winters

Don’t let it control you
don’t let it seep in
think about the wind rustling the leaves
the constant flow of rushing rivers
clouds drifting across the sky,
reshaping
the mountains rising tall and steady
above the Earth
the ocean waves pulling at the shore
constantly pulling and pushing
by the moons will

Don’t let it ask too much of you
to the point where you ask
yourself if any of your troubles,
bad days, and sorrows
will ever be worth it
instead,
think about cotton candy colored skies
and the burst of color in a sunrise
while the moon lingers in the daylight
and stars hide
until the next clear night
Jun 2019 · 562
Grandparents
Corey Jun 2019
Grandma was sitting in front of the TV again.
Watching her favorite ball players and
answering puzzles correctly
until she felt too tired to continue.
Always looking for a playful fight
with her favorite grandsons.

Grandpa was reading the newspaper again.
Always gathering information about
politics and world affairs,
and then telling others what he could.
Informing his family of what’s happened
in Washington that weekend.

Grandma was hunched over outside again.
Dirt collecting under her nails and
caked to her palms as she planted
new flowers in front of the house.
A calm Thursday afternoon,
not too chilly for April,
full of birds chirping around her.

Grandpa was working downstairs again.
Always tasked with some new project and
asking my help when he didn’t really need it.
Showing me how to use tools and
measure things correctly,
and telling stories of things he’s made in the past.
Jun 2019 · 250
Clouds of Smoke
Corey Jun 2019
It’s hard to push the clouds
of smoke away by yourself
It’s hard to want to do it
when the cloud became comfort
When the smoke fills more of
your lungs than oxygen
When your vision is always hazy
and it’s hard to keep your eyes open.
It’s hard when someone asks you
to want to save yourself
when you don’t want to
push the clouds away.
Not yet.
Corey Jun 2019
This is the heart I’ve had;
a heart that gives before it gets.
And while it waits for some release
from its generosity,
it’s mostly full of regrets.

It’s been broken, battered, and bruised;
constricted so it cannot grow.
And when it’s backed into a corner
it shuts itself down
and has a hard time saying no.

It wants to love and please my family,
every lover, and every friend.
But when it comes to those,
who I want to love more
it burns out quickly instead.

It aches in most situations
where it doesn’t feel absolutely.
But when it comes to pain
it embraces it all
because it believes that is its duty.

It uses pain to be creative
but then abandons its creations.
And when I ask it to do better
it sighs, cries,
and loses any patience.

This is the heart I’ve had;
a heart that gives before it gets.
And when its down and out
full of only doubt
my mind will do its best.
May 2019 · 272
-
Corey May 2019
-
You have so many people in you corner
but you’re fighting this fight alone.
It’s time to let those people help you.
Corey May 2019
I invite you to lift your eyes
and see the pleasures around you

the bees pollinating flowers
butterflies fluttering by

birds singing in the trees
clouds gliding across the sky

sun shining across the field
squirrels scurrying across branches

fish swimming in the river
deer walking through the woods

leaves swaying in the breeze
rain falling from the sky

ducks paddling in the pond
people walking down the street

lift your eyes and relax them
into the sight of simple things
Corey May 2019
I dream of feelings of joy,
of lying in bed alone and smiling
of complete happiness
I dream of wild adventures
that take us to the ends of the earth
until we eventually grow old

I dream of pouring honey
into your tea every morning,
handing it to you wordless
I dream of planting sunflowers
on the walkway to our door,
watching the stalks grow

I dream of a life together,
of good and bad mixed into one;
a life without purpose
I dream of bigger things than us,
of legacies we will leave,
of times we will outgrow

I dream of touching the moon
of reaching up and placing my hand
on the cold white surface
I dream of flying past the stars
away from the world, our home
with you closely in tow
Apr 2019 · 214
Fall
Corey Apr 2019
Dangling by a last thread
a broken, brown body
hangs from a tree.

Swaying lightly in the breeze
it pulls downward
in a posthumous plea
for release.

A death for a cause,
or perhaps none at all,
a sacrifice for a larger entity;
a martyr, a ******
a struggle now released.

And as the wind blows harder,
the last thread can finally break,
and the brown body can fall
gracefully, wistfully, like a feather
to the ground; a small sacrifice
for the life of the whole tree.
Apr 2019 · 769
Forgiving Frailties In Me
Corey Apr 2019
Allow me to take Springs flight
and blossom with the sun
The birds arrive with morning light
nesting, with new life begun

And in these mornings let me see
that the birds have come so far
Let me hear the buzzing bees
and not forget what ears are

Allow me, then, to speak my mind
and listen to the words spoken
A drop of honey from the hive
of knowledge and of emotion

And in those days of trials, troubles,
I’ll no longer hold my tongue
But in careful breathing I easily struggle
and need reminding how to use my lungs

Allow me next to closely whisper,
to ask myself for forgiveness.
The trees forgive the retched winter
for its cold, unending stillness

And in the next days I ask for time
to take note of my frailties,
but in the Spring, I will rise
with radiant and blossoming peace
Mar 2019 · 519
Psalms for the Moon
Corey Mar 2019
Hymn

At night, my gaze is lifted to your grace.
I sink into my skin, relaxed upon the knowledge
that you are constant.  
Your quiet luminescence lights my way.
Your still movements sway in me,
like the ocean tides to your will.

And yet, when I fall I am not broken.
In me you will always stay.
And when I speak to you I have not spoken,
you know what I had meant to say.

At night, my gaze is lifted to your grace;
it holds me in its embrace.


Lament

For the nights that you've abandoned me,
I ask that you see my growing frustration.
My body becomes filled with a rage
that's fueled by an unhealthy obsession.

For in those nights I am weak, brittle;
feeling as if I've lost my balance.
In those nights I am broken, hurting;
on my knees sobbing in your absence.

And in those nights I search for you,
that you'll let your light seep in
But you show me that you never left,
I just chose not to see where you'd been.


Thanksgiving

You return like eyes opening;
the darkness parting to your beauty.

I'm reminded how well you know me
and that you always knew me.
You knew me when I was at my best,
and when I'd fallen to my worst.
You showed me there's safety in stars
and picked me up when my body was hurt.

I am thankful for your constant grace,
your willingness to effortlessly forgive;
your careful happiness that shines through me
and will continue to shine as long as I live.
Mar 2019 · 188
Blossoming into Spring,
Corey Mar 2019
Blossoming into Spring, the hives begin
buzz, buzzing with the flutter of careful wings.
Soon the yellow fuzz will emerge and arrive--
with a playful passion--on flower, to
pick up the pollen from the shrubs.

Up above, the birds watch from the canopy,
chirp, chirping until they suddenly flock.
Swooping down happily to greet them--
the friendly bumblebees--with a loop
through the field; playing with the Earth.

Butterflies and hummingbirds dance majestically,
beat, beating their wings in the summer sky.
Dancing through the air in a silent trance--
a ballet in the clouds--among the flowers,
the grass, the birds, the Earth, and the bees.
Mar 2019 · 248
č
Corey Mar 2019
č
The claws of wretched women leave scars on my skin.
Reminders of where I came from and who I’ve been.
Some marks last a life time of wanting to disappear,
but others are proud of their sins.
Mar 2019 · 193
b
Corey Mar 2019
b
When I was younger I liked to explore the woods,
wade through creeks in my bare feet.
A few times I came across deer drinking,
but more often saw the snakes;
sliding off of rocks into the water, towards me.

One time my dog had bitten me on the arm.
More of a warning than an act of aggression,
but for the weeks that came after i kept distance,
worried that he would get angry again;
whip around towards me a sink into my skin.

As I got older, I became intrigued by teeth pressing down. Whether it be a mark of romance,
or a plea for more during an act of lust,
it became less of a fear of mine;
no snakes or dogs trying to hurt me.

Once I learned to subdue my reservations,
I let any and all things bite me.
Mosquitos, spiders, cats, lovers.
But the one that hurt the most was learning
that there are worse things that bite.
Mar 2019 · 169
æ
Corey Mar 2019
æ
Art has a voice.

My paintings speak when I can write no more,
and I see that their colors, shapes, sizes,
elude to moments of my ****** history.

Like the time I had the light ****** out of me
when I thought I could hold together the broken
pieces of my first relationship; Allison never
helped to clean up the mess.

Or the times my mind has been a flood,
at three in the morning, of dark reds
and blacks shooting out in explosions
against the backs of my eyelids.

I see the hours spent trying to put out little fires
of cynical attitude and distrust that Green
brings out on the canvases.

And the treacherous landscape of emotion
politely covered up by a white
surface, turned grey from far too much
to cover up.

My paintings speak before I know that I have spoken
and I see the colors running down the to the floor
like tears shed over past troubles.

Art is a voice.
Mar 2019 · 320
The Child of Knowledge
Corey Mar 2019
With eyes closed to the outside world,
far from the bustling cities;
A child sits beneath the canopy of leaves
fingers sprawled out in the grass,
listening to the sounds of nature.

The child, statue-like, held silent and strong,
sat motionless for over an hour.
And when motion finally occurred
it was a slow and stately rise,
a reach into the pocket.

The child brought out a small notebook,
and scrawled in it for a few minutes,
before returning seated, cross-legged.
Statue-like, silent, strong,
the child sat again for a long while.

As the sun went down, the child stood up
and walked the mile back home.
Inside, taking out the notebook,
sat down at a writing desk
facing out the window.

And for a few minutes, carefully,
the child copied what she had written:
“I’m a child of nature, of written words.
A child that knows no truths.
I’m a child of joy and happiness

One who asks for nothing but a use.
I wait patiently for the inspiration,
for the flood of thoughts to come.
For poetry is not an act at all,
but a knowledge of the constant hum.

I am a child of wilderness, of harmony.
A child that listens to the Earth
I write because I’m asked to
by the world that speaks in murmurs
that I then claim as my own.”
Mar 2019 · 276
soft
Corey Mar 2019
sometimes it’s takes an army
of well-trained women and men
to fight off the slow decline.
other times all it takes is a smile
from a welcoming face.
sometimes it takes weeks
to get through the smallest battle,
lying in the same place.

it can take a couple books
of expertly written poems
to teach me to be fine.
other times all it takes is a word
scrawled into my journal.
sometimes i don’t, but maybe
it would help if i could
be more verbal.

often times it takes a soft blanket
wrapped around me tightly
to calm a frantic mind.
other times all it takes is a walk
through the sunlight.
sometimes i just need a reminder
that’s it’s okay to be small
on the inside.
Mar 2019 · 285
Heaven in Hiding
Corey Mar 2019
She was a summer day spent
soaking up the sun on a
beach with waves crashing
in the distance, and the sound
the breeze made when it
ruffled through the grass
poking up through the sand.
A smooth glide across the ice
rink on wobbly skates straying
slightly too far from the walls
for comfort but making it
to the other side unharmed.
The lighter that just won’t light
a flame but sparks a pure
white flash quickly and jubilantly.
In the garden from my dreams
she’s was every living thing,
the tallest tree to the smallest plant,
green running far into the
distance in every direction.

She was a crisp autumn evening
under the faint twinkling stars
spiraling around the world faster
than imaginable but stuck,
hanging in the sky and fading
in and out of view.
A long glide across the ocean
waters on a sailboat, flying
around the world with the
strength of the wind.
The book that patiently
waits on the shelf to be
picked up again and again,
only to read when the time is right.
In the midst of a crowd, she was
nothing but unnoticeable,
heaven in hiding,
waiting for the right one to
uncover her mysteries.
Feb 2019 · 1.0k
Little Yellow Things
Corey Feb 2019
Tops of flowers swaying in the breeze
and reaching rather high.
The sun peaking over the clouds
with a jubilant shout
shooting rays across the sky.

The pop of color in a lemon tree
enough and not too much.
The small hovering butterflies
that will catch your eyes
with their admirable hush.

Bees dancing around in a pollen haze
and clinging to their hives.
The autumn leaves of green ash
atop rolling hills of grass
that litter the ground for miles.

The vibrant joy of a sunny day,
and flap of a birds feathers.
The sight of a Canaries wings,
and other little yellow things,
that make life that much better.
Feb 2019 · 303
Nostalgic
Corey Feb 2019
Each time the wind
blows a soft
whisper through the trees,
floats past petals on flowers,
carries bees, birds, higher,
slides clouds across the sky,
the soul of the world
listens intently,
desperately,
trying to recall a memory
about to surface, but
just out of reach.
Feb 2019 · 574
Yellow
Corey Feb 2019
Yellow is the feeling of laughter;
of coming home to you.
It’s the way the sun shines down on
the things you love—glowing—gold;
the way it makes old look new.
Feb 2019 · 326
you—black marble
Corey Feb 2019
the surface—dark, immovable
at the core—bright, unusual
but most of all
with rigidity and sturdiness—
durable

all the while—beautiful
Feb 2019 · 472
Her;
Corey Feb 2019
Her hair; a bright
statement of autumn
leaves falling from
trees dying with the bitter cold.
Her eyes; a vibrant
youth met with
a love of old.

Her arms; an ivory
pale and comfortable
kindness that hold with
tightness only love can create.
Her hands; a delicate
touch that once gone,
remains.
Feb 2019 · 845
Constellations
Corey Feb 2019
Drifting across the sky
and falling into darkness,
the sky turns slowly
and effortlessly,
I watched the miles
traveled by the moon,
watched the stars
glide in solidarity.

I allowed
them to fill the darkness
with bright light that didn’t
radiate, but was contained
within a speck; I watched
as they disappeared
and reappeared as I drifted
in and out of focus.

There were never enough—
a dusting of white dots
like splattered paint from
a brush that had nearly
run dry.

A painting so simple
yet so immaculately detailed
with pictures of heroes and
goddesses.
A puzzle
asking to be seen
through wondering eyes;
long forgotten.

Impossible
to capture the painting’s true
beauty
Feb 2019 · 338
Corey Feb 2019
while the moon hangs over our heads,
we’ll lie in this make-shift bed
that we made on the roof of my car—
as we whisper so that every star
can hear what we have said
Feb 2019 · 2.6k
dawn
Corey Feb 2019
it was a soft, palpable silence that can only occur in the absence of familiarity. there was plenty of sound, but it all felt—empty.

the babbling of the steam, accompanied by the calm rustle of leaves as a slow wind crept upstream. the humming and singing of the birds high above. the occasional croak of the far off frog, or splash of an unidentified creature returning to the brisk water.

my toes felt the chill as i stepped in myself. grainy water brushed by my feet—abrasive from the debris i knocked up with my heavy step. smooth rocks poking at my soles.

the water sloshed as i dragged my shin through the stream feeling the cold slowly take over my body. venturing deeper than i thought the stream got. the smooth small rocks underneath my feet turned to slippery stones that shifted under my weight, but that i wouldn’t be able to lift.

my toe stubbed into a softer object just as the water had reached my chest. i paused, feeling the rush of water pass by every part of my body. my feet feeling a slow pull to my left, while my torso was being pushed heavily in the same direction.

the softer object was the root of the tree on the opposite side of the stream. i stepped on it, slipping twice before finding my way up. i climbed the labyrinth of roots out of the stream and stood on the sloped trunk. it was not a fallen tree, but contorted. it sloped out above the water.

i crawled up the trunk passing branches that were beginning to turn barren with the colder weather. i sat near the end, high above the water. i watched the water flow past me. i watched a few leaves fall in and get rushed away. i watched the branches around me slightly sway with the wind.

i saw a fawn drinking from the water upstream. i watched it lift its head for a quick look around, then down to continue drinking. it showed no sign of knowing my presence despite how i broke the silence: the splash of an unidentified creature returning to the water—among the singing birds i was surrounded by, the croak of a far off frog, the rustle of leaves with the slow wind, and the babbling stream below.
Jan 2019 · 232
arrivée.
Corey Jan 2019
The sea lifts me up
and pulls me down
in gentle waves.

A subtle darkness
freckled by the stars above

The paleness of the moon,
of my body, reflects
off the deep greenish-purple

A charming moment of beauty
within the calmness

.

Dullness to the outside light,
and the inside struggle
of each day

A timeless opening of solitude
in a life that precludes it

Alleviated from the awareness
that I am unworthy
of the world

Specks of comfort and pride
hang in the sky above me

.

At the crest of a wave;
I find peace for the
briefest of moments

A burst of orange
as I shout in triumph

Tearful bliss; then I’m pulled
back down by the sea,
falling into dark purple

And I arrive as I am,
now sunk in despair
Jan 2019 · 373
Yellow Days
Corey Jan 2019
blue cathedrals stand in the day;
motionless, elegant, and calling
attention to the suns light

forests of yellow leaves carefully falling,
barren branches being revealed,
freezing with icicles in the night

the dying light of a cornfield
turned flaxen with the cold,
and brown with the mud

come Spring, the blues turn gold
and the branches that remain
turn green with buds

dandelions creep through wide plains
creating more yellow days
and embracing April showers

the bees dance in a haze
collecting pollen for flowers
covering them in the yellow powder
Jan 2019 · 1.4k
Golden Moments
Corey Jan 2019
The heaviness of the night
is lifted
with the brightness of the sun
shining down on new opportunities

Pouring over the world
ever slowly
and into every crevasse,
like liquid gold;

honey, You deserve it wholly
The golden reflections of
the brightest moments
Jan 2019 · 211
Translucent’s
Corey Jan 2019
Your heart, glass
Your soul, mist
Your eyes I can see through

I listen close
to hear your voice;
only but a whisper

You linger in
the morning light
in love with the pale blues

Your mind, water
Your body, plastic
Your love a solid figure
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