(oct. 2013) Part of me longs for richness With wealth comes the freedom To make your home in whatever place you like. Tell me that true wealth comes from loving And I will tell you that love goes far But cannot feed empty bellies You cannot pay bills on love alone And too much of this life comes with a price. Tell me I cannot eat money But tell me what I can eat without it. Tell me that true wealth comes from the people you hold in you heart And I will tell you that there are people Who…
re: self care
I am learning mantras And rubbing them Like oils into my skin Mine is a good body And the world, Wondrous as it is, Is made more so When I am in it These are my balms. Let them be salves For the cracks in my soul.
on blooming:
lessons i learned from the pavement: life continues to bloom; even through cracks in the concrete.
To The Stump In my Garden
Day 7- Take a walk until you find a tree you identify with, then write a poem using the tree as a metaphor for yourself or your life. To the stump in my garden that has begun to sprout Mere days after its branches have been shorn: Teach me whatever lessons you have learned How to give thanks for your still solid roots And how to recalibrate the hardened fibres of your bark And make life once more.
Passions
i can’t keep twistingmy ankles to dance orbreaking my heart to write
Gossip
for D. With the righteousness of youth I convinced myself That sharing whispers -of your weight -of your diets was made nobler by the secrets (my secrets) you’d spilled like ink. Indelible, Unforgettable, Unforgivable. But ink fades.
Chennette
I was born like a chennette: My green mother- sliced open down the middle, And me- squeezed out. Pink, sticky, sour.
Ethos
I always stay too late. I am always the last to leave, The one left to taste the soured wine Passed in frantic effort To regain the spirit, Get burnt by the embers Of hysterical bodies Trying to rekindle the longspent fire. Last to leave And first to come off that high Brought on by either ethers or ethos First to sniff the stale smiles that linger in the air Long after the fleeting fancy That brought them has left. I always leave too late, And as I totter home, I am always emptier in the dying hours Drained from…
Mania
I go like a clockwork toy wound too tight Frantic and eager but sporadic and hysterical And I love and I love And I give and I give Until like like a well loved toy My skin is worn thin And my entrails spill out from the seams. And the pounding ratatatat tattoo of my heart whipped into frenzy is calmed by the panicked coda of my hyperventilations. We all have our lows.
No Rest For the Wicked
Inspiration rides the dregs of a late-night caffeine high, brain bubbles like a percolator on speed, firing synapses are the prodding pokers that keep me awake, inciting me to violent turns of phrases, penpoint picks at an itch long left unscratched. They say to hide one’s light under the bushel is a sin, and this must be my punishment. No rest for the wicked.