Sometimes poetry stumbles. I think you can tell because of the way this began—not quite poetic, more like strings of consciousness tangled together like Christmas lights, the only exception being that I don’t like Christmas lights.
Chosen
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Poems
The Time Clock
Those long miles down old gray roads, roller coasters on the way to roller coasters, coast to coast, talking in codes, the leaking pipes, the broken toasters.
Two Lonely Souls
The forlorn girl looks up with a smile each time the maple leaves sway with the breeze, dancing like maidens of scarlet and gold for the girl at the window who watches the trees, seeking escape from a sorrowful world.
Home
So it begins, the smell of freshly spread paint mixed with sweet-sticky perspiration. Tireless preparation. Scrub the stains, pack what remains, stack boxes in bedrooms, eat lunch (Oreos and applesauce) while sitting cross-legged on the floor, write up a laundry list of things to do and realize there isn’t yet a washer, make a conscious effort to avoid spilling on new carpet but do it anyway.
Safe One
If I were to make a list of the best feelings I know, the ones that smell of safety and taste of tenderness and call me with loving lungs, I would write: being held in small, strong arms and knowing I am protected with the very lifeblood running through them.
I Took Life Apart
I took life apart to see what made stars glow; I wove a web of silver truth, untangled row by row.
Hearts Blend
We face our beginning; with one wrong step, our end. Both ends tangle as we explore—we share the now and could be. Time blends.
Unread
Unread texts swiped across my screen. I’d never call it personal—I’ve left him on read for a week, and I don’t reply to her as quickly as I used to. I hear the ding, I watch it flash, and for a few fleeting moments, I stare at black, bold text with fading, flooding thoughts.
Found
Found: a poem, down a dusty old path that leaves have scraped with many final breaths. When asked why it lingered so, it laughed and held onto my arm, and hopped with wreaths of dry, pressed daisies (all the color drained) upon its golden head.
To Speak
You touch where none have touched, catch my future as it flutters through. Cradling it, softly you ask, “You all right?” I cannot speak.
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