poet

The Immemorial Breeze

After Robbie Krieger

A rhythm begins within, grows its pace
steadying adjacent to my lungs
gently caressing and heightening in time.

As I reach for an opened door
among this unsteady foundation,
I become one with an ultimate fascination.

A gentle breeze sways its way
lifting me across the fields.

Absorbed with awe
above each tempestuous treetop
and with each breath, the view assures that we are blessed.

These movements of air,
raw and real,
reminds me how I’ve longed to feel.

This source of peace,
begging for stillness,
levels our lost lives.

Restoring my spirit home,
I grant myself the space to breathe.

The ceaseless rhythm stroking my chest
stirs within me, and is bound to last eternally.

Walk With Me


She wants to be who she is.
She wants to feel loved for who she is,
And who she wants to become.
She doesn’t want to feel guilty to feel needed.
She wants to feel beautiful.
She wants to feel strong.
She wants to feel like she belongs.

But if belonging means to solely coexist,
To feel like another piece of the scenery,
Then she doesn’t want to be anywhere remotely near it.

She wants to have romantic love.
A wish on her last days should not be to feel more loved,
But rather to have more days to spend with the one she loves.

Talk to me like I am the reason you breathe.
Talk to me like I am why you rise in the morning.
Talk to me like I am the last thing you want to see before you sleep.
Tell me I’m your everything.

And then show me, prove to me, that there’s no doubt in the world otherwise.
Tell me, because a woman needs to know.
And tell me authentically.
Don’t pour sugar over a salty wound thinking it will heal, only time and tenderness will do.

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…

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.

The Gentle Birdsong Calling of Spring

it’s right underneath,
brewing under my chest
this quiet whisper circling-
not spiraling downwards as
i often tend to, but in the way a
gentle breeze swirls a handful
of leaves and they flutter away.
there’s an inquisitive nature
to it where there is somehow a
sense of magic at hand, and yet
somehow there must be a reason
to it all. a scientific process that
always begets the same results after
following a specific pattern of events.
the snow will always melt with the touch
of warm air. the birdsong will always
bring a sense of relief for the return of
Spring. and the lovebirds will rejoice
after surviving the long Winter, nuzzling up
to the love that kept them warm.

Home

image credit: https://www.shutterstock.com/image-photo/pretty-sexy-woman-silk-10931620

is this my home?
spinning ‘round n round
going from high to low
and back ‘round again.

is this that place where a heart feels heard
and shoulders ease?
for far too long the tongue’s been tied
and the shoulders tense

from being left in the dark
because my stories don’t matter.
the voice has been shushed
and pushed into a corner steadily decaying.

do you hear me
as you untie my wrappings?
do you wish to pull out my stories
while uncovering my parts and pieces?

do you turn the lights on
and keep them shining,
to see all of me?
or do you take only what you need?

is this where I belong
or do I hide in the dark
to seek comfort and refuge
from a stranger’s company.

i would tell if you asked.
i would say so if only you took the chance.