I romantically excused myself for not writing much of anything anymore while on a walk the other day. I was slinking through the wood—if you could call it that (truthfully, I felt as if I was clad with only a meager shroud of pine against the bare commanding sky) when I stumbled over the difference between capturing something and letting it go- captivity and freedom? Or do the connotations become too bristly to bear? Mere semantics, you say- and yet perhaps the crux of my dilemma- or the key! “To capture” (rooted in the Latin “capere”) in addition to its standard use, can be placed in the creative context: to capture the essence of something—a far more palatable choice, but rooted all the same. Though- when speaking of art- is ‘capturing’ not analogous to ‘expressing,’ insofar as I “capture” and “express” a mood? Perhaps one is used more with visual as opposed to verbal art, but interchangeable nonetheless. Is this an oxymoron, and so a truth—a beautiful phenomenon- where only in the act of creation can you let something out by reining it in? Where “capture” itself dries up and flakes off its last layer of meaning, revealing its new skin of freedom, pinkish and pruned? Or is it a transference (transcendence?), transformation from non-stuff to stuff, a metamorphosis in which some external intangible item is snatched, internalized and then processed, attributed to or assimilated with some known feeling- given meaning- and then released back into the social cytoplasm, portrayed in some metaphorical way? Or is it a coalescence, where captivity and freedom intermingle and create something wholly new…it would be nice, wouldn’t it- to reconcile the shackles in art?

And it was this meddling that let me forgive myself for forgetting the metallic shock of briny sea that interrupted the mellowed sand. It was this train of thought that allowed me to dismiss the arching boughs that cradled the air above my head. I watched content as their essences swirled about my conscience, even prattled against the back walls of my brain, and I gleefully danced amidst the potent smoke, knowing that within every crevice of the universe lurked the very same wonderment, for what would the possibility of this life be without it? And to capture that or express it was no matter, for ‘it’ is given, ‘it’ is necessary. Even when you find yourself at a moment where ‘it’ culminates to become the true fabric of magnificence might you accept the normalcy and absoluteness of the instance, realizing that your attunement and alignment is natural and undeniable- it need not be bottled up and contained like pretty sands- though a reminder at times is welcomed. Much like the way we do not- sometimes cannot- grasp the fibers of dreams, but yet can feel their energies gliding between our fingers, does the life force vibrate continually about all things, regardless of our interpretation.

wander under a spotless night
take a drag
through a window pane, a light
cuts through shadowed streets
scenes from a hollowed life
a disinterested glance
at my privileged existence

hope for an explosion of feeling
but even humble sentiment
would lift my delicate body
from the building flood of apathy

switch to commercial break
with three payments of 29.99
plus shipping and handling
supplement the superabundance
and drown

It was a lover and his lass,
  With a hey, and a **, and a hey nonino,
That o’er the green corn-field did pass,
  In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.

Between the acres of the rye,
  With a hey, and a **, and a hey nonino,
These pretty country folks would lie,
  In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.

This carol they began that hour,
  With a hey, and a **, and a hey nonino,
How that life was but a flower
  In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.

And, therefore, take the present time
  With a hey, and a **, and a hey nonino,
For love is crownèd with the prime
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.

I lead with my left,
And follow with the rest
Of my body.

React with the exact flow
Of my subconscious,
And come back later for the editing.

Life is not a boxing match,
But it feels like I’ve been
Fighting this and that.

Fist in hat and swiped it back
No magic tricks
To help me with it.

Just one thing to the next,
And I no longer reflect
What I expect.

I am just a wishing well
Of show and tell,
Pennies in, but only smoke come out again.

No one is innocent,
save for the child,
resplendent,
laughing at the sea.

Throw your bones in the garden
and redden as rain raises a finger,
calcium white,

it is sharp and cold
on this day of recollection,
you’re striding through the garden

plucking corpses.
Place the cradle on the table,
the flowers need no water.

Forever their bodies limp,
yet quivering in you a survival
that mocks your spoiled soul.

What’s done is done.
The plight of realization
has halted the burgeoning summer.

Years fuse to responsibility,
and you do not shine,
but collapse.

Too trusting by half, seeing good in those who don't wish to give any light back
Seeing reflections in cold brick walls, sure that everyone cares for someone
Confused by the lack of empathy, choices made for the self baffle, doesn't everyone else check the mirror last?  
Doesn't everyone consider each step? The floor isn't covered with lava, it's covered with hearts, please watch your step
As the knife goes in and the blood pours out, I assume they stumbled

I was a little girl yesterday morning,
With a flash of red hair and a gap-toothed grin
Laughing and playing on the swing at my favorite park.
I was a confused pre-teen that afternoon,
Scraping her knees on jagged insults
Holding in tears for secret bathroom visits
Where she would push her fingers
Into her throat and
Pray on her knees that her lunch would
Reappear like a magic trick.
I was a scared teenager by evening,
Kissing girls and running away from
The demons in my head with voices
That sounded like my mother’s.
By midnight I was on the floor shaking,
Back to twenty, back to who I am now
Wishing those past me’s would understand that I needed
Something more.
Yet this morning I sat up in my bed and greeted the sun with a
Flash of red hair and a close-gapped grin
And I am here now,
Here remembering, being present and
Knowing who I was
Ten years ago twelve years ago fifteen years ago five minutes ago
Is exactly who I needed to be,
Doing exactly what I needed to do.
Scraping my knees and elbows
And pushing my finger down my throat
And feeling ugly all the time,
That’s not what I needed but it’s
Who I was Who I couldn’t stop being because I
Didn’t know how. In my mind,
I am not
That little girl, that preteen, that teenager I am me.
I am
Bumping and bruising and
Breaking, sometimes, along the way but this
Is where I stand.
And those past selves stand
Hand-in-hand somewhere along
The equator of my brain
Like paper dolls unfolded
Through my history.

A shiver starts in my toes
and moves systemically up my body
leaving nothing untouched.
Vomitous shaking , solely mine
never the familiar stranger's
unrecognizable self
disconnected from self-image.
If the impostor fools everyone
is he an impostor still?

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.