Practice

I put too much pressure on myself to be a poet when that is not the descriptor I would ultimately choose for myself. I would hope to be successful enough in writing that I could attempt fiction or non-fiction with ease, but I get so caught up in the process I never post any sort of progress.

Practice, practice, practice.

I haven’t been practicing much of anything lately, except banging my head against any given object with any sort of misplaced frustration I can muster. So here’s to the effort, thank you to “Room to Write” by Bonni Goldberg, may she inspire me enough to post something new:

Today, as you write, incorporate into the piece some of what you would like to be doing right now if you were not writing. p.105

I am sitting uncomfortably, hunched over my computer in the dim light of a desk lamp, writing without my contacts in. I squint in the middle of the day when my sight is at it’s clearest, so this middle of the night business is nonsense. I am on my bed, but I’ve read article upon article about shutting off the lights and turning off electronics when attempting to sleep, making this bed-sitting completely unacceptable. I would be sleeping if these thoughts would stop plaguing me and some sort of guilt will ensue if I continue this short process, but I can’t stop it: there are too many problems in the world for us to not be stuck on one or another, regardless of them being real or made up.

I have been attempting to pay more attention to the reality that surrounds us, keeping up with the news and the politics of the world by reading articles. The daily update is daunting; there is something tragic happening on a second-to-second basis and trying to decipher it all overwhelms me, at times. How are we supposed to align our overall goals with the realization that there are so many people drowning in their individual situations? Can we reach out to help the world if we are not capable of helping ourselves? Or are we helping ourselves by reaching out to the world, and if that is the mind-set, could it be considered selfish?

Worry for the world while worrying for oneself. Worry not about my alliteration though, we all know that’s whack.

Forever

Pale lashes fall on full cheeks
Destined for slumber til morning.
While life meanders on
Thunder peals in the distance.
The sleeper does not hear it–
Warm beneath winter fleece.
Heat from a short day
Loses strength quickly
Against the pull of a storm.
Fat droplets explode on cobblestone
Filling microscopic holes,
Ejecting their small compounds
Expressing the smell of rain.
A dry spell may not last forever,
Mr. Barrie told me, but then,
He said forever could possibly last
For only three seconds.

On An Edge

​I sway against the universe
Ebbing as it begins to flow
Into my entire being
Seeming to be waiting
On the precipice
Of some momentous moment
Distinguished from one another
By a small segment of time
A solitary breath held in
On a fog-filled winter night

Paper Thin Skin

Hands, hardened by work,
softened by love,
learn the curves of a woman–
in spring.

Hearts, broken then fixed,
blending lines of passion
with the destruction of lust–
this summer.

Voices, gentled by age,
crack as they call
for lost loved ones–
each autumn.

Skin, aged to paper thin,
cracks in dry wind
during a warm spell–
last winter.

11:11

I think of you
once a day
at least
because I look at clocks
every time they read
11:11
as if it were destined
for me to miss you.
We do not speak
sometimes
I cannot breathe.
Were I to call
could I say
that I wish you knew
how
I still love you?
I doubt it
you deserve to know it
regardless
of how I  feel.
I hope you are healthy
I hope you are happy
I hope you found reason to smile today.
Happy birthday
Mom.

Country Roads

An old man in an old truck–
Gut stretching the seat belt,
Gun rack loaded,
Bullets beneath the bench seat.
He lost what he wanted
A long time ago,
Using it all up,
Spending long moments
Away from his life.
The other he left there
His best girl with big eyes.
She saw his potential
He didn’t believe her.
He left her waiting
With nary a call
He came back to his house
No longer his home.

She Sees You

She is better when sad,
With downturned face,
Lips pulled thin,
Lost in thought–
Her edges sharp.
Then, up you walk
To tease out her smile
Hidden under cloudy eyes.
When her gaze meets yours
You believe in “we”–
That you are what she wants,
That you are her only wish.
As she sits in a corner
Of this awful, tiny room
That she made last week
When she pushed him away,
But now–
She is looking at you.