Princes and princesses in aprons and suits,
Pirates on ships in the clouds,
Half-forgotten hopes and dreams,
And a vow of patience --

Scribbled in a 15 year old notebook,
In green felt pen,
In joined up handwriting, summed up in a phrase:
‘Wait for the stars to align.’

When Mars came hard and the moon turned its back
I forgot that notebook, and its plea,
When love found its way through to the eye of the storm,
And I accepted its course with a bitter tack --

I didn’t care for that notebook, and its caution
When all was in shadow, and
love’s bitter fruit wrought its sweet poison.
Paralysed by fear of loss and the barren vine.

I found a cure in the darkest sea
Beyond despair,
Beyond hope,
Of a promise made long ago.

Of a silver notebook
And green felt pen
In joined up handwriting
'Wait for the stars to align.'

And I did.

I want to write about what hurts because I think it will
Stop me from hurting. If I put these words on
A page then they will be easier to digest.
Poetry isn't curative by creation, it is
Just confession. Still, these remedial
Lines are what I turn to when I am holding
Too much in my hands. Right now, I feel
Like I am overflowing onto the ground below me.
For the first time,
I don't want to write about what hurts. I want
To keep it inside of me and let it burn me. I want
To carry it in my palms for as long as I can.
I should write
About how we've said goodbye so
Many times that it turned into a threat, a weapon
We made with our tongues.
I should write
About how I lied and got away with it,
How you got caught with
Your hands tied and no one to blame.
I should write
About how it was over before we waved the white
Flag, and I know what it means now
To hold onto a sinking ship.
I've never had anything to die for.
I should write about how I've never wanted
Something so much that I devastated it completely.
We loved in harsh conditions, under sun and darkness and
I don't know how to write about how
The love didn't save us.
I don't write about letting go as much as I write about
Holding on, and I want
That to change.
I don't want to write hurt just to feel it.
The next poem I write about you will be
About me. About how I held on and how I let go.
It won't be about your love, it will be about
Mine. It won't stop me from hurting, but
It is how I make it out
Of my love alive.

peculiar,
just like you.
you prefer hydrangeas
over roses
and when
you planted
a valley
of them
inside of me
i get butterflies in my stomach
everytime i see you

Speak , preach , sing o'er the valley
O' tabitha hardwoods
With stately pines reaching for the heavens ,
Cast thy likeness across the placid waters , beside -                                           wire-grass boulevards , along the morning                                                             ploughland , 'neath red maple carpets , sycamore
narrow and Appalachian hillside* ...