Sometimes life feels like…

Sometimes life feels like an endless wave,

you hold your breath to go under only to be tossed up again,

and you laugh as the water splashes over your face.

Sometimes life feels like an impossible hustle, an unrealistic

juggle, a priority war between do’s and don’ts and wants and needs

and why’s and what if’s.

Sometimes the lines between wishes and goals and dreams blur

into a disorienting cloud that swallows you whole so you can’t breathe.

Excuses hang around your neck like jewelry—or nooses,

depending on your creativity.

The infamous “they” say better to die trying than to die wishing,

but dying isn’t even the point, is it?

The point is living.

Absence.

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.

 

 

 

Midnight Cigarettes

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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.

My Mother’s Yard Sale — A Poem

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?

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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.

All I want to do is write

feather

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.

Airport — An Abecedariam Poem

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. 🙂

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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.

happiness is a unicorn

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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.

escape

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.

winter

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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.