Above the streets, into the buildings & trees,
do you see what only we see:
a needed escape,
an expression
of pleasing—
head back,
eyes closed,
legs parted,
a kiss on the lips—
it takes us to the moment
where we rise into pure ecstasy;
there’s no other place we’d rather be.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
the looking glass
possesses fragments of a view.
surrounding figures and forms
collapse as our fingertips meet.
yet, steady is the scene
encompassing pieces of you.
limbs undulate tenderly
with the slightest breeze.
wildflowers spread their seeds
dropping impressions
attempting to gain greater visibility.
such bits linger out of view,
boulders that were planted eons before,
torrential rains that flooded these plains
leaving ridges deep and wide.
yet, this singular slice,
the object of my heart’s deep affection,
is purely the only matter
that requires my line of direction.
in the blaze of the summer heat, drips
of sweat rippled down our smooth skin backs.
we set out for adventure along the Pacific coast,
the four of us squeezed in a compact sedan.
sisters laughing, shouting, nowhere else to be.
engaging winding hair-pin turns, honking,
speeding, and slamming on the brakes
as the afternoon sun scorched the town.
we reveled in the sights, mountainsides, sea
cliffs, the endless shore; such views we’d never
seen before or soon forget. we eventually reached
the city of angels, the city lights; the most memorable
trip of our lives sailed through those late nights. we
often walked in a daze, both night and day.
a trip we still laugh about, the screams belting out
winding down the coast, and how close we were
to the end of it all…
what i thought i had lost,
a love that would never return,
now fulfills distant dreams-
an unanticipated ecstasy.
but while caught in the midst of it,
how is it that i still think of you?
the one who got so close but still so far away,
the one who buried me deep,
with a voice kept on repeat,
i can’t seem to make that voice,
or those words, go away.
how is it that ‘i keep coming back
to your shores’?
how is it that i keep hoping for more
when i know nothing
will ever come of this?
does the music ever provide the answers
or does it only tell us what we wish to hear?
