as we told each other the greatest things we could think to share
we could all tell
the greatest things we held within ourselves,
strength
attitude
illness
recovery
friends
mom
loss
li­fe
grandma
love-
we know, now, what word the center of our being holds-
we had thought of each other as creatures that spun with the world
around the point that is our own being
everyone else a nameless, faceless being that turns and leaves in orbit
with no center of gravity, no word inscribed on their hearts
that kept them grounded to this earth
but we were wrong.
the world spun,
and we were all still there together.

Fishing on a pier
In midsummer haze
With my grandfather,
Out on a misted lake,
The blues of the waters,
Stirring, deepening blues
Of drizzled sky, we baited
Our hooks, lapping waves
Caressed the drowsy pillars
We rode and so, were reminded,
That there is one colour for both
Joy and sadness. Over slow time
Different fish appeared, bass, pike
Trout, hornpout, but mostly the rangy
Perches, scaly pugs of yellow-orange,
Like slabs of weighted, tiered sun, they
Fought on the reel with high crested spine,
A quiet, noble ferocity.

                             Later, moving lethargically
In the grey of our pail, like broken beads
Of water shed from the morning sun,
How I wanted to toss them all back.

Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly;  who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.

Have you ever had a dream that takes up twenty-three hours
Of your daily twenty-four?
And it follows you to work, to get-togethers, to school,
All the way back home.

You want it so badly, would give your heart and mind and
Your uppermost third of your leg on the left side.
And it makes you smile when you think about it because it's amazing.
And you think, you hope, you know you'll make it happen.

And then you come down and remember who and what and why you are.
And that dream is mocking and jeering at you.
That dream is picking at you and you don't have the energy to bat it away
So you let it and it picks away more than you would have given.

You wake up in the morning thinking your whole life's been wasted and,
From the other side of the bed, that dream agrees.
You look at all the people who did it and have it and made it and,
From the other side of the bed, that dream is still mocking you.

When you go to work the dream drapes itself over you, broken and nasty
And no one mentions it because they all have their own dreams
That are doing the exact same thing.
Neither do your friends, or strangers, or family.

When you go home some indeterminable amount of time after that dream
Broke you,
You wrestle it to the floor and fold it three hundred times until it's barely a
Speck.

And you pop it into your mouth and swallow it whole
Pretending you can't hear it screaming and fighting all the way down.
You digest that dream but it's still there, ready to be taken up again but you won't
Because you won't get it now and you won't have it later.

On your way to wherever and whenever you see children laughing
And they hold their dreams up high. They love those dreams and those dreams love them.
And your stomach twists and turns as your dream beats at it
But you keep walking. Keep driving. Keep moving.

You close your eyes and scream and cry but you don't get your dream back
Because it hurt you before and you're not fool enough to try again.
When you go to sleep, it will haunt you.
When you're home alone, it will torture you. You know this.

You go home anyway and it stabs a knife through your abdomen and
You don't flinch at all, it was expected.
And you go to your room and lay down to stare at nothing for an hour or two
Until you think that, maybe, crying will ease the emptiness.

So you think of the saddest things that would send the hardest heart into waterworks
And you wait because, two hundred and eighty-eight hours later
Because one million three hundred and sixty-eight thousand seconds later
You still haven't shed a tear.

i used to pace my room
in confusion of why i couldn't get over
the single month we spent together
sharing coffee, kisses, stories, bodies
i barely knew your middle name
but we talked again a few days ago
and i asked you, "do you think
if the people we are now were to
have met eachother before the
people we were then, we would've
had a chance?"

inthe moment it took
for you to reply
i finally figured it out
me and him, we are the
connection, as opposed
to the attraction i have
mistaken it for, he taught
me how to love softly, he
talks like he still knows me
and i still don't trust it but
i have never experienced
anything like this and
now i am pacing my room
again, caught on a simple
text message, sent 11:29am,
that reads "yes, i do."

Sara not so plain and not so tall
Daydreaming in the shopping mall
As blond as a summer day
Speaking of herself in a peculiar way:

"I'm pretty, yes, but I wish to be better;
To be the admiration of a love letter."

But her beauty is the kind that lasts
And makes your heart beat especially fast.
Finland born but London found,
Lovely, sure, but greatness bound.

And the nights grow more tiresome,
as her chest beats a tattered drum.
Her mood too dreary for speckled eyes
that will dim if night blurs into sunrise.

"Sleep why do you run from me,
as my memories grow.
Eyelids, be a blanket,
And melatonin, a pillow."

Victoria Lucas in her head,
as the bell does ring until fed
by the words that sound soft to us
but are actually strong and thus
she is misunderstood-lips are red-
Like Greenwood inspired, kissed dread:
She can save herself before jarred,
Before feathered, before tarred.

And it is my faith that lets me know,
That her happiness will one day grow
Because Sara not so plain and not so tall
Is the strongest of them all