There is something
in the way you linger
through every room
in my heart
but the key
is how you are missing
with reaching fingers
and empty air.
Monthly Archives: May 2017
Here But Not There
Filed under Poetry
Broken- A Rewrite
Every poem that begins,
Sounds like a eulogy
That I will have to give.
Forgive me.
I can’t paint you
Into a thousand words
Watercolors always bleed
One thought into another.
The mind doesn’t allow
The ignoring of obvious possibilities.
Imagination, a child’s play thing,
The child being my anxiety,
My mind the playground,
The ground is lava.
My hands are always slipping
Across the monkey bars.
Is this insanity?
Maybe if I will it hard enough,
Lily pads will appear beneath my toes,
Will I be strong enough to let go
And trust that everything won’t burn?
I’m pink with the rising heat
Someone has a basketball
Thump,
Thump,
Thump,
It vibrates though my body.
It is not me.
It is not me.
It can not be me.
Hanging above a deathlike pit,
Allows your mind to wander.
Imagine the tips of my fingers
As mini concrete cinder blocks,
Holding me in the air,
Like a circus trick.
I hold all my strength in my hands,
Out in the open for people to see,
If they wish to acknowledge it,
Strength can be intimidating.
Better to be left unsaid.
Better to fly across the monkey bars,
Show your flair and speed,
Those are qualities they want to see,
It is weakness to struggle.
Even if that struggle,
Means hanging everyday,
Over lava,
Thump, thump, thump,
Heart is always racing in your ears,
A reminder you are alive,
Keeping on the pressure,
With the rising heat,
That you must not let go.
Isn’t that strength?
Never letting go.
Even though it would be easier,
To get some long deserved relief.
So, my words can keep sounding,
Like a eulogy that I will have to give,
But I’ll use them as gloves,
To keep my self up in the air.
Filed under Poetry
Broken
You consume my every thought
That I want to put into words
But every poem that begins
Sounds like a eulogy
That I will have to give.
So, forgive me.
I can’t paint you
Into a thousand words.
The watercolors always bleed
One thought into another.
My mind doesn’t allow
Ignoring of obvious possibilities.
Imagination is a child’s play thing,
The child being my anxiety,
My mind the playground,
The ground is lava.
My hands are always slipping
Across the monkey bars.
I’m stuck in the middle,
Writing a poem,
About a poem I want to write,
About how writing that poem will break me.
Is this insanity?
Maybe if I will it hard enough,
Lily pads will appear beneath my toes,
But will I be strong enough to let go
And trust that everything won’t burn?
I’m pink with the rising heat,
Someone has a basketball,
thump,
thump,
thump.
I can feel it through my body.
I know what you are thinking,
It is not me.
It is not me.
It can’t be me.
I should be able to grab the monkey bars,
pull myself up and make it to the other side.
I should be able to put those words on paper,
hundreds and hundreds of words.
I live on paper.
That is my heart’s playground,
26 letters to rearrange at my own whim,
It is my favorite game.
You are weaved through the
thump,
thump,
thumps.
You belong on my paper.
Making a Comeback
I’m done and out,
feeling this way.
I’m gaining sensations back in my legs,
Finally learning to stand again,
I’m remembering what it is like
to be able to stretch my limbs,
Without being afraid,
That I might offend somebody
With my reaching of the stars.
Words seemed small,
Like ‘confident’,
Now I braid them into my hair,
So everyone knows that I
Give my vocabulary meaning,
No longer allowing society
To hide the brightest parts of me
In a never ending eclipse,
No longer feeling ashamed
To let my heart lead the way.
I want to shine until the darkness
pushes past the horizon,
Merely a speck of dirt on my rear view mirror,
Until it just adds character to the vehicle,
No longer deserving a second glance.
Filed under Poetry
Don’t Assume
I don’t attend church regularly.
If you asked me to pick up a sign and protest pro-choice on the streets, I’d say you were crazy.
I don’t believe in sex after marriage and I believe that whom you love is whom you love.
I believe that my priest is human.
I don’t believe that I will be struck down in the streets if I eat meat on Friday during Lent.
I do believe in God.
When the pain was not going to stop her,
I prayed that this would be a good trip for her,
Something that would be worth the effort of getting out of bed everyday,
He didn’t take the pain away but
He did bring out the sunshine, blue skies and green fields for miles,
He had the birds singing in the trees, the leaves changing ever so slightly to hues of red,
He pulled bodies out of bed at 5 AM to greet her at the airport,
He got her three shout outs in the wedding speeches
He blessed her with more blessings than the Bride and groom.
He gave her the strength to walk into the church even though the wheelchair was sitting in the trunk of the car.
He gave her security to smile when behind closed doors she could do all but move.
When she returned home to emergency surgery,
It should have been no surprise when the all clear came from the doctor,
Outside was a sunset that can only be describe as a poet’s cliché, heavenly,
I believe that he listens, sometimes like he is just listening to me.
That what I say in my head is like my own personal radio to an all-powerful being.
I don’t have a ritual of getting down on my knees and pressing the palm of my hands together,
The second grader within me urges to fulfill the catholic school rhetoric,
But the adult in me has learned through life,
When I say my thoughts to who is listening, I know that I’m being heard.
I see his answers everyday in opportunities and circumstances that change.
Things happen for a reason because there is a plan,
You are given opportunities when you open your heart to the possibilities.
I believe in God because when my prayers about someone who is that important are answered means I have to be talking to someone pretty special.
I can’t tell you every holy holiday,
I believe that his light shines through my student’s faces,
My bible is an app that exists in a cloud,
I believe he gives me my voice,
I curse at cars on Monday mornings,
In the darkest of times, he will provide clarity,
I don’t declare my faith on my sleeve,
But I do believe in him.
Filed under Poetry
An Everyday Girl's Outlet 