poem

Rising Waters

soft rolling waves
brushing the shoreline
come hurling. warmth

that used to make
your blood boil makes you
recoil deeper

from all that you
have felt and long to
feel. digging deep

into the sand
to push it away,
you recoil

into yourself.
this was not part of
the plan; moving

to the city
to be part of the
scene, only to

find you’re constantly
sinking.

poem

The Portrait of Disappointment

after Joni Mitchell*

after years of hoping things would change
and giving in to “well, that’s the way it is,”
look me in eyes and realize
this is who we are,
who we’ve become,
it’s finally come true –
our love’s become old news.

we never lived up to the story of make-believe;
when we face each other
I must believe this is the choice
we’ve been making.

every morning & every night,
from here on out
this the only way to keep going,
alone.

turn these dog-eared pages of our lives
for other truths to be told,
for other hands to hold.

from countless days of emptiness
from your professions,
your attempts at affirmations,
something in me knows better:

there’s more to love
than a collection of memories,
there’s more to see
than foil-wrapped treasuries.

what passed in the space between us?
a moment, a disappointment,
and I leave it all in the past.

what’s to come?
a path we’ve never tread,
yet time’s been stolen
and minutes slip away.

the clock stares and we wait
for affections from a new love,
a new life in a new bed.

The title comes from a comment Joni Mitchell made when describing the theme of her music, one part hopeful and one part “the portrait of disappointment.”

poem

You’ll Want to Sit Down for This


There’s no easy way to say this;
there’s no way of keeping it in.
It builds inside of me,
telling me to set it free.
It’s begging for attention;
it’s scrapping up my knees.
It’s knocking louder and louder;
it’s banging down the front door.
What is it, you ask?
Well, where do I begin?
Do you have a chair to pull up?
Grab a glass of water
and a box of tissues, too.
I have a while; I hope you do.
You see, things like this take some time.
There may be some hesitation,
some mulling over facts versus emotions.
There may be some details, or generalities
until I become comfortable.
So please, bear with me a while.
After all, it concerns you too.
And if you must know, yes, I think you do,
it’s been there for a while
and it’s time to set it free.
poem

The Strength In Our Scars

Reposting because we all need to be reminded. And when I say “we” I mean “I” …

When it comes down to it, I think if any of us are going to make it, we simply just have to believe. We have to believe in the power of the small things, in the comfort of a cup of coffee, in the calming, melted hues of a sunrise, in hearing our mother’s voice on the other end of the phone after a long day. We have to believe that we can overcome whatever weight life ropes to our spines, whatever circumstances our choices or our shortcomings throw our way. We have to believe in love; we have to believe that we are worthy of it, that we are deserving of being chosen despite the insecurity or the flaws or the mistakes. We have to believe in our ability to take care of the people we care about; we have to believe that we are enough for them. We have to believe that we have permission to be whomever the hell we want to be, that we have the capacity to be truly, and deeply, happy. We have to believe that we aren’t alone, that people see us for who we are and what we have the potential to be. If we’re going to make it, we have to believe that we are growing. We have to believe that we are meant to be here.

The Strength In Our Scars

poem

Are We Home Yet?


You’re the gun
and the bullets
inches away delivering the deepest wounds.
I am wounded, fallen,
and hollowed out by you

Lying with my insides shredded
you believe it was all necessary to keep you sane

I beg you to save me,
if only you could see how deep these wounds run
if only you could prevent them from happening
if only you could truly see me for me
if only you were moved to the same depths by the same things
if only you channeled the same pains and could sit in the dark with me
if only you didn’t see things differently
if only we were emotionally in tune
then I wouldn’t feel shameful for the way I am
then I wouldn’t have to change how my brain works,
how it turns every difference into a negativity instead of opportunity

I beg for sameness, likeness, because that’s home
and I want to go home
fall sleep under the covers
and never wake up
poem

The Shoes I Walk In


These shoes of mine could tell a story if they could talk. And they do, they tell enough, just look at them!

Not the whole story, though, that’s what the voice is for, fill in the gaps for what people don’t see.

Ah, but that’s where I trip up. My voice doesn’t scream as loudly as these boots do. It doesn’t sparkle as much as my heels do. And lately the pace doesn’t keep up with each step traveled.

The shoes in my home are stacked high and low. A different pair for every season. Multiple shoes for the same activity. Winter Boots. Rain boots. Walking shoes. Running shoes. Sandals and flip flops galore. Most of the shoes selected are based upon an upcoming activity, not so much as a statement piece. Except for my recent addition of blood red leather boots, now those make a statement. The “I’m gonna kick some ass today” statement. Yet lately the pace has likened to boots too bulky, too cumbersome, to make any trek productive – trudging wearily through heavy terrain.

“So, get new boots,” they say. And so, I kick them off in search for walking shoes, which will turn into running shoes to outrun the mess I’m in. Anywhere else than where my shoes have been. And maybe one day I’ll see you at the finish line with my head held high, my feet a little sore. Whatever the distance, whatever it takes, to get to where I’m supposed to be. Anywhere but here.
poem

you spoke to me

Eyes down,
eyes averted from the truth
I took a chance
A glance in your direction
Then your eyes met mine

Me in my red dress
You in that captivating charm
We couldn’t ignore the electricity that sparked
As we longed to embark on a fiery journey

It didn’t take much
A sly grin as a welcoming
A slight brush against my thigh
A beating began within our chests
And traveled to our loins
And we knew

And you said, “Now the real danger begins.”
It was a spark to ignite the nuclear holocaust
Everyone in its wake affected
caught by the fire
or deserted after the storm had passed

All I wanted was your hands lifting my red dress
To feel your warm breath next to my skin
To hear the song of poetry between two lovers
I didn’t want much but I craved it all
After that first taste.

poem

Wrapped in Chains


Contemplating her next move
the pounding within her chest
told her what she already knew:

she was nowhere close to break free
from the chains wrapped ’round her so tightly.

With the escape route blocked;
there was no sense in moving
for every wriggle tightened the grip.

Accepting her fate, another day
in this God forsaken place,
if it was her own doing
then it shouldn’t hurt as much.

All there was to lose,
the ghosts of future memories:
the would haves,
could haves,
should haves,
ought-to-do’s,
that ran through her soul
every minute she looked out the window.

If she remained grounded instead of lifting her wings,
maybe she could get used to living this way.

“Just don’t move,” she whispered under her breath.
And there she lied
as ghosts of future memories continued.
poem

A Bleeding Heart

It’s getting late and we’re dying to find out
what’s fated us here tonight.

You dare to ask what I’ve done, where I’ve been,
I’ll tell you more than you’d want to know
so let’s start this off slow.

The truth can be a dangerous thing;
you can’t unhear it once the stories have cleared.

I’ve held the hammer to a bludgeoned heart,
been the reason love and light broke apart.

I’ve danced across graves at night,
celebrated the taste of freedom that was mine.

I’ve destroyed many with a single look
then let go of ’em before they could sink their hooks.

I’ve lived through it all with eyes glued to the sky,
as a witness without remorse, only living on the outside.

With a heart paralyzed and surrounded by flames,
I curated multiple tragedies as cupid’s arrow took aim.

With hearts discarded,
I’ve since repented and paid the price
of these words and actions of a former life.

My dear, on this night with you I promise-
my pounding heart is now yours. If you’ll take it,
please don’t open the glovebox where there lies a knife.

poem

Walking The Corridors of My Mind

thoughts drift wondering
about those who have
walked the corridors
of my mind,
over the years
and through the doors
in and out of sight.

I see their faces,
hear their voices,
as they’ve entered dreams
and I wonder,
where have they gone?
what are they doing now?
do they wonder the same?

do they see the same blue
skies above?
do they feel the same aches
of aging?
do they have needs
to hear the music
but they’re
unfulfilled and left
wondering?

are they out there,
are they wondering the same
for me?