Forgotten Opportunities

Throughout my time, I often point out the mistakes in writing, rather than absorb the beauty. It’s so easy to point out the negative, what they did wrong than what they worked so hard on and did right. I’ve been wired like this for a long time. They stick out so easily and prevent me from moving on to the beauty of the piece. Often I find myself questioning if it is in our nature or how we’ve been taught as a society to pick apart every detail and focus on what could have been better? 

Recently I found you, you misspelled tag on a poem. And you too, you forgotten period at the end of a line. I found you too, you misspelled word in a poem about the sun shining down upon you. I see you all, and I think you do this to me on purpose, to know that we are not perfect, to know that poetry is life and life is not perfect, and love, love is not perfect either. 

We are inevitably flawed and yet I wish it all to be perfect, and I want poetry to be perfect because it pours directly from our hearts and our hearts pour out the truest emotions in our poetry. Shouldn’t we strive to reflect our truest form in poetry? 

It’s a battle of cyclical proportions:
we are who we are and we show it through poetry,
we strive to become someone or something and we show that through poetry,
and we see what has been and we tell our stories through poetry.

So now when I stop at those forgotten opportunities of improvement I say, “I see you. I get you. I am you, too.” for we have all been that forgotten detail in someone’s story.

Thank you for reading

I was meant to love you

I remember you in the morning,

the way the light hit your eyes,

the way your smile matched mine,

the way your fingers grazed over my peaks and valleys,

the way you wandered over my warm skin, inhaling its intoxicating scent.

And I remember the feeling that it was a perfect dream,

one that we never wanted to end

but it slipped away too soon.

And now every time I start to rise in excitement

I anticipate the impending heartache that follows.

Do I dare to fall, do I dare to rise, do I …

I do, and so we continue, for the rest of our lives.

the other morning

Lying in bed after a night’s sleep, I peek

at the clock to confirm the hour before

the sun comes up. It’s too early to stir

the house awake, too early to reach for the phone,

for those good morning kisses. It’s

the only thing I want to wake up to, seeing you

across from me, telling me you love me.

Forcing myself back to sleep, I float in and out

of a dream, too eager to get too deep.

It’s one of those days, like every other one,

where you are so far away and I need your face

in front of me. I need your kisses all over me.

I need your smile, your body wrapped around me.

Yet, here we are,

with one more night ending,

to one more morning

in another light.

Untying the Knot

She gathered
tulle and ribbons
to create
the most perfect gift,
where the two of them would unite
to protect the insides,
to hide from others
the chance of disappointment.

The more she gathered,
the more she prepared,
the more she fought to avoid
things that were destined to happen,
the more they came.

Pulling back the ribbon
on her handcrafted gift,
she now sees
how empty it is inside.

listen to her

inside of you,

that constant voice

knows you better

than anyone else.

she’s been there

when no one else was.

she knows she’ll never

steer you wrong.

she’ll direct you forward,

& retract you

from uncomfortable situations.

no matter if they say otherwise,

listen to her.

friends know a side of you,

your lover knows another,

but she knows all of you;

all of your inner workings

shaping your heart

and points of view,

listen to her.

when the night is still,

when you’re in the midst

of looking across the room

but you’re 3,000 miles away,

listen to her.

she’s there to keep you

grounded yet dreaming,

enjoying yet wishing

that soon all will be right.

drowning in poetry

Click to listen to the spoken word track to the poem below, accompanied by ‘My Heart Is For You’ by Peter Sandberg

a poem of longing

a poem of remembrance

a poem of rage

a poem of hope

a poem to slip into your mind

a poem to never forget the story

a poem to purge the feelings

a poem of healing

do you ever get the feeling

we’re drowning in poetry?

day by day

inundated by poetry.

everywhere you go,

another platform,

another social network

for poets.

countless poets lost

among the broken hearts

with stories that rip deep into us.

events and notifications pop up constantly.

do this, do that.

see here, listen there.

read and absorb all the talented forms and poets that you can.

i sift through multiple journals and sites

encouraging all to “submit your best work!”

yet when does one have time to create when trying to keep up?

it’s in these moments where it feels best to retreat and figure out which method works best for me.

dab a little in other’s works, write a few lines here and there,

listen to a poem or two,

join an online reading and network when it feels right.

in true poetic form, the gatherings and discoveries excite and inspire.

part of having a poetic life is that poetry will always be there when you need it.

and yet there’s opportunity to take a break and resume again when it’s convenient;

it’s poetry, it’s not going anywhere.

Train Ride Home

inspired by The Last Night of Your Trip

on the train ride home
your smile flashed between buildings,
lights flickered and i couldn’t tell
if it was the spark in your eye
or the streetlights beaming
onto the dark streets.

i saw your smile and your hand
reaching for mine,
those bedroom eyes
that whispered “bring me
to your hotel.”

we weren’t made for cheap
sex, we were poets
who felt everything down
to our souls.
it wasn’t just one night with another,
it was our lives coming together.

your smile chased me
between the streets.
your breath next to mine
will always be the one thing
that sends me off
to the sweetest dreams.

The Secret Garden

bore from the most arduous labor,
its intoxicating fruit,
its sweet blossoming fragrance,
pulls in the strongest of hearts.
as a vine
snakes its way through the depths
of a luscious secret garden,
distinct impressions
produce
the richest aromas.
even to an untrained eye,
the sweetest honey couldn’t go unnoticed.

Photo by Magda Ehlers on Pexels.com

the sweetest honey couldn’t go unnoticed;
even to an untrained eye,
the richest aromas
produce
distinct impressions.
a luscious secret garden
snakes its way through the depths
as a vine
pulls in the strongest of hearts.
its sweet blossoming fragrance,
its intoxicating fruit
bore from the most arduous labor.