When there is no writing,
I find myself in the middle of a road,
as alone as one feels without a phone,
night draping my shoulders — a long,
heavy cloak dragging behind my heels.
Trees so tall they morph into darkness
bulge beside me — grand, continuous
borders blocking all muses from my mind.
A half-moon follows me, casting a grey
gaze on this place of no words, and
all I see are shadows.
I miss sneaking
a smoke
on my parents’ porch;
those silent moments,
anxious in bed,
waiting for family
members
to fall sleep.
I miss whispering
“good night”,
my pretend sleeping,
the soft night light,
the crack of my door,
me creeping through,
holding my breath
to listen.
My bare feet
tiptoeing on carpet,
shoes dangling in hand,
mind wrapped up in plan,
passing sleeping sounds,
to the front door locked,
loud heart pound,
the echo of the key
click.
I miss the cold
air that greets my face,
my slow motion exit, a
cigarette in a sweaty palm;
the no regret.
I miss —
inhaling, exhaling
in folds
of nighttime’s
morning,
alone but all right,
adrenaline gushing,
thoughts whooshing
and buzzing,
city lights like
fireflies,
my current life
unrealized,
staring out in wonder —
the moon’s sad face.
It’s spring on my side of the world! And the season for yard sales is here. Or is steadily approaching at least. Spring cleaning and purging is underway, and the people in my neighborhood are readying their sidewalk signs and organizing potential sale items into bins and baskets (or so I imagine). I love yard and garage sales… the treasures that can be found amidst the random rubble of years gone by. I love random. And of course, I love a bargain. As well as the feeling of reusing and re-purposing… of giving away and letting go.
What’s the coolest thing you’ve picked up from a yard sale?
My Mother’s Yard Sale
Laid out on the lawn on folding tables, all no-longer needed items are listed at a fair price. Cotton dresses with faded polka dots hang limply on hangers; the long sleeves of blouses long gone out of style wave in the breeze, sweeping through the neatly organized memories.
Brown boxes with torn corners hold stacks of used books and bent magazines. Mother’s old toaster might be of use to someone who collects simple but respectable antiques from the fifties. Buckets filled with old but sparkling silverware sit and wait, continuously
overlooked by passing faces. Kenny Rogers cassette tapes with scratched off labels border the gray surface of the yard sale tables. Shoes once squashed in the bottom of a box in a basement finally smell the outside air, the pair’s not-as-striking color desperate
to shine one last time in the sun. Wooden picture frames that once held my family’s faces stare at eyes that don’t give them much notice. My mother sits in her folding chair, sipping tea, checking off the number of items she has left to part with. I watch her from inside
the house, through the window, wondering who would possibly want a poster of David Bowie, a poster creased with folding lines. Solid-colored t-shirts flap like flags, calling to neighbors, dog walkers, anyone interested in place mats with a few unnoticeable stains.
I’m on a mountain top,
wrapped up in a down coat,
huddled in a tent or igloo,
silence all about me,
the sky open and translucent,
stars burning holes in it;
my thoughts swirl in the
wind, making patterns against
the clouds, and not a life nor
a thing, no calls whatsoever,
save for the echoes of ice
dribbling down
the slopes,
is around to
interrupt
me.
Have you ever heard of, written, or read an Abecedariam poem? The Abecedariam is a poetic form in which the initial letter of the first word in each line follows the order of the alphabet. It’s a fun and challenging form in case you wanted to switch things up and take a stab at something different! Try it out and let me know what you think! I hope you enjoy mine below. 🙂
Airport
Automated sliding doors greet stampedes of people pulling
baggage, pushing strollers, clutching purses filled with books,
candy, pens, mp3 players, anything that will keep them busy
during the duration of their time in the sky. Some are beaming,
excited for the vacations they’ve spent years or months saving up
for. Others drag feet, pat tears, cling to hugs, whisper reluctant
goodbyes. Impatient, wiggly children grip their mother’s or father’s
hands, asking question after unanswered question as the parents
intently watch the airline schedules on large, hanging screens.
Jam-packed check-in lines link people of different tongues. They
keep getting longer as the time ticks on, shortening with the slow,
lazy pace of a caterpillar creeping forward. Airport staff watch the
masses, waiting with tired feet for their shifts to end. Tourists,
newlyweds, businessmen and women—every day different faces
of the same types of travelers. The food court swells with
people chewing overpriced premade sandwiches and pizza slices.
Quenching thirst is not necessary as the overhead announcement
reiterates that flight number this or that is ready to board, ready to
slowly turn the plane’s nose towards the runway. Family members
take turns taking last minute airport pictures, laughing, completely
unaware of a gift or souvenir they forgot to pack. The airport’s
veins are the people that never empty out of its walls, that sit and
wait and watch and stand and cringe when asked to remove shoes.
X-ray vision monitors scan bag after bag while the uniformed staff
yawn in their swivel chairs. Embarrassed by her soiled thongs, a girl
zips up her suitcase after a search as eyes pretend not to notice.
Sometimes,
the desire to not be told
“I told you so”
trumps all and leads one
to foolish measures.
Don’t let pride
take the reins or keep
you from growing past
“I told you so”—
prioritize wisely.
what i need is not on a map;
i am the compass.
i have struggled,
and because i have struggled,
i have lived and
i have overcome.
sometimes, only sometimes,
waking up
is the most difficult part of the day.
i don’t know where i’m going.
i’m making up my destiny
as i go along.
it’s better this way.
more scenic.
my brain is filled with contradictions.
my heart is a well of desire.
how will i change if i catch my dreams?
is it just the thrill of the chase?
i hear happiness is a unicorn.
when we arrive at our wants
she lingers,
but always eventually
she
flees the scene.
only the sound of our breath
on the wind,
as stars explode,
sprinkle overhead,
poke holes in
peach-colored
sky;
bugs tell stories
in the dirt,
roots of trees
protrude from the earth,
like stiff
serpents;
weeds are welcome
here;
my dog,
sniffing along by my side,
picks up sticks,
consuming
all
with a twitching nose
pressed to
soil;
her collar tags
clicking, clacking
like keys,
tell me where she is;
stopping to rest on a log,
not a bench;
stopping never
for man-made red;
stopping never
to wait;
let’s make tracks
in the dirt,
speak only with
our eyes,
watch the sun dip,
dip,
down,
and away,
the pale sky
swells to
black,
and you find my hand;
let’s soak in silence,
forget the noise,
peel it away from our
skin,
cut it away from our
hair,
tuck it away in a mason
jar,
bury it beneath
unpicked,
flowers,
beneath
rocks
that dot the earth
like buttons,
beneath
leaves that fell away,
away,
away from branches,
twigs and stems;
the air is warm
but not for long;
the sun is rising
elsewhere;
she can’t escape her
purpose.
in a veil of frost
and silver,
she moves always
inward,
pulling all things,
all beings,
towards silence;
draping the skies,
softening the sun,
only as she pleases;
etching cuts and burns
on trees
and earth,
she picks the stars
and studs the land;
she is a sculptor,
a blade,
a pocket of crystals;
she transforms the rain
drop,
sits upon a carved,
see-through throne;
she is a visionary,
a minimalist;
in black and white
she dreams;
she knows
her time is temporary;
she does not aim to please.
because writing is
revolutionary;
because i dream in
words;
because i cannot stand to think
that i will not be
heard;
because i like the black
of ink;
because it hurts to not;
because i fear that if i don’t
my heart will surely
rot;
because it slices
cuts
and burns;
because i cannot sleep;
because the earth
echoes
the sea;
because the
leaves
in
fall
will
weep.
Mad Girl Writing 