Monthly Archives: September 2017

In Melody

It’s when all these things
build up inside me,
like thoughts I’ve somehow
not yet found,
the right order of words
to express in language
what the heart, it feels.

So I sit by the window
instead in mournings,
and watch how the wind,
it speaks to the trees,
but I’m sure, the trees,
if they could tell me,
would say the heart
it hears in melody.

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I Remember

I remember –
“how you loved me,”
and how it was,
“I loved you then,”
and how it is
“I’d love you now,”
and all the words
that have been written,
as though before
they’d all been said,
that if I could,
I could not stop them;
how the ink, it flows,
from a lover’s pen.

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Body Language

How often am I reminded
of those wide set eyes,
dark like the night
that falls like a
curtain falls on twilight,
and as I pass two lovers
who stand at the corner,
immediately I can tell
how he wants to kiss her,
when oh, how I wish instead,
that it was you and I there
standing at the red,
and I looked just as much
like everything you wanted,
and just as much,
I wanted you back,
like the older couple
I saw earlier,
after one of them
had just met with the Doctor
and now have to discuss
all that was said,
but what I notice most
is the love between them,
and it’s the way you look at me,
the way you hold my hand.

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Papier-mache

My hands feel as though
they are made of papier-mache
and tear like butterfly wings,
so fragile, the body,
that I took my Mother’s opal ring
and wear it now as a reminder,
as though somehow it might
keep her close to me, even though
I cannot fly any longer
and am so broken I would crawl
back into the chrysalis if I could,
and pull the silk up over me
and dream of opals
while surrounded in your love.

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Kintsugi

And everything I ever wanted spills out of me,
or at least everything I thought I wanted breaks
like a strand of pearls rolling endlessly and I?
“But let them go,” and don’t bother to salvage all
that’s been broken and wait instead for the
mending of gold to fill every crack, every crevice,
so that one day I might look again in wonder
of what happened to this shell of a body and how
on earth, but by the grace of God’s hand, I stand.

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Keep Moving

Small words
fall like hope
upon the mouth,
parched by thirst,
more insatiable
than hunger
cries out for
have I not
known this feeling?
Once before
I have, and all
the desperate needs
and requirements
of the body;
this machine,
which carries us
as the vehicle
and can’t
be replaced,
for us, the thirsty,
shall hope only
that all parts
eventually regenerate
at least, to
some degree, that we
can keep moving.

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Home Run

I can only let
words sit
for so long
before the pot
it starts to boil,
and I want to
break out or
break the china
and let
the tea steep
until the tea
leaves settle,
but I don’t
want anyone
to read me
my future,
because
the future’s
not yet written,
like a fortune
you can’t know
until you break
the cookie open.
Says who?
“Life’s about
to throw you
a curve ball,”
but you can
take it like
a champ,
and like a
Baby Ruth,
just try and
hit a home run!

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Between Us

I remember
how the light
first caught
in your eye.
I remember
the feeling,
of all these
little things
about your
presence,
of all
the things
I wanted
and want still,
and miss
how it bounces
back and refracts
as it bends
through my iris;
this light
between us
and how
it moves.

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Rosebud

Youth is like a flower
budding in innocence,
until in full bloom
it becomes cognizant
of its own beauty and
thought of resilience,
though lacking
the knowledge
it has yet to gain
of its own fragility,
as have all the roses
on the same vine
who have come before it,
until they begin
to pale in comparison,
wither and die,
as all flowers must
do in life; this fleeting,
glorious, momentous
movement; as the petals
drop at the base
of the vine
and leave only the trace
of their fragrance.

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Patterns

Sometimes all these words
go rolling about
as though marbles
I’ve placed on a tray
in an attempt to bring about
some sort of balance,
but soon realize
I am more interested
in the circular patterns
they begin to make
as though planets
in a solar system that rotate,
much like our own,
each in its own orbit,
that before I know it,
I have forgotten the words
and whatever semblance
of them I was trying to make,
that instead am left only with
the beauty of their essence.

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Golden Light

The sound of evening
pours through
at the open window
flooded with golden light;
these final days
of Summer,
and how they hang
as though out to dry
like wet clothes
on a clothesline,
though the air is still,
but warm and just as
fresh as the clean linen,
that it’s almost as if
I could close my eyes
and believe, if but
for a moment,
that I am far away
and back on the land
where I grew up
where there was nothing
but these wide open spaces
where Summer could stretch out
as far as she liked.

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Cinnamon and Sugar

I wait for all the words
“I want to tell you,”
as though baked in a pie
I’ve sat by the window
that smells of
cinnamon and sugar,
till cools just enough
to serve you a slice –
of the best pie you’ve ever tasted.

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Like Rain

We should let all thoughts
run out of us like rain,
as all thoughts should –
we keep them to ourselves?
As the heaviness of clouds
keeps nothing to itself.

How else to know the ocean
and the direction of its currents?

For rain will come irregardless.
Whether in torrents,
or in stillness of air and quiet,
the eyes give way,
and the clouds release – an ocean.

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