Month: September 2015

Ode to my future love,

Our hearts cracked open,
And with the breaking of bread,
You spoke to me as honey.
Through the valleys of warm yeast, flour and sugar;
You came to me with your arms and said,
“Here, you are safe.”
I come from long days,
Beaming in the sun and
Carrying my worries.
I till the land and rake whatever doubts we have away.
With the night skies,
Deep as black as blue can be,
I wait for you to come home.
This meal I have prepared;
Fresh bread kneaded with my hands
And these that we have brought from our garden,
Remind me of how much I love you.
Here you are safe.
The whisks of breeze whip against us,
Bringing what they may
And you pull me in embrace mouthing
“Here you are safe.”
Our years have been like stone tablets,
Philosophers, our parents, dear friends
And abusers place their mark upon us.
We take in each hand;
This will to till our own land,
And fears that duck like shy children at our legs.
Our hopes for a better path will not warrant perfection –
But be a light that would shine faintly,
Where we would not feel alone.
I come under the fading of summer and the ripening of fall
And say to you,
And you to me,
“Here you are safe.”


One foot in the water,

I took my walls down.
Taking a chisel to the layers of rock,
Hammering holes in the dry wall,
I emerged into this world.
Bewildered and frightened,
A rush of wind caught
The words of the past.
It swirled and looped,
All that I had known challenged whether I was ready to become again.

Flight into a new era,
A stumble on to the stage
And a glance back,
I tucked my fears into my suitcase.

Build with what you know…

We came into one another,
Wide eyed,
And bushy tailed.
Apart of me has traced your skin,
Stroking lines and lines,
Of words that have not be written –
Nor said.
For we had entire novellas,
Anthologies of our sorrows
And finer moments.
What has come in the night and stayed,
And perched outside our door like a bird, is peace.
Ruffling the sheets once more,
I turn to you watching the rise and fall of entire empires.
Your chest filling with new air,
And seeping out old things – like old clocks now silent.
I switch to the tension in your jaw,
How you grit back what has sickened you but left you stronger…
The immunity has left you ravaged with hope and in retrospect I can love how you live and survive.
With new pulleys and cables taut,
I hoist our new dreams together into the air.
We came to know one another,
Tired bones and hurt jaws,
Now we grow intertwined like vines,
Their stems cascading from the ground
To the height of our new towers.
We came to nestle into one another,
With murmured prayers during lazy afternoons,
Sleepily our lips touched our words.

Forever ago

Past the double doors,
I skirted around the issue,
And tip – toed past the words themselves.
I ought to know now that it’s meaningless.
Though, my heart could in fact rehash old sins,
I chose to look back fondly that our years were not perfect but well.
Well enough,
That a smile sneaks it’s way over
And spreads across my face.
The scent of September lingers.
My mother wears her jean dress with the brown leather belt.
She flings open all of the windows
And each curtain can no longer hold back the shimmering sunshine.
Past the skinny streets and junk cars,
My friend and I imagined that this world was not ours.
Kneeling down and poking at the plants that grew between sidewalk cracks,
Time had eluded me.
How strange that the past itself was not horrifying – always…
Past the double doors,
I smiled faintly at the past
But kept walking on…

A crybaby sings the blues

I don’t think your love can save me,
And tear me out of the infested waters.
What has passed me…
Has remarkably been a love that baits a cat with string.
It’s high time,
I curl my index finger down,
And stop trying to find which way the wind is.
It’s logical to plant rows and rows of flourishing gardens,
Watering their seeds,
Without drowning them.
I don’t think your love can uproot me from the stoop,
Nor hack away at this tree trunk
Years too old to stay.
Only street kids hang around and sit on it.
The little ones make tables out of it,
And well the adults won’t trace it with their fingertips,
The lines mark the years
That have gone by.
I ought to quit fluttering my heart,
Because I know I’m stuck.
Swamp goo, Seaweed and past times hold my ankles hostage.
If my gardens here do flourish,
And they float away as lily pads,
Take one flower and remember me.
For I’ve loved in heaps
Stomping fruit with my feet
But I know it’s not the time for me.
Your love can’t pull me out of the wreckage,  this I’m sure.

Where’s the remote control on life?

With a tug at my skirt, my hands carelessly fluttered to make sure each part of me was immaculate. I took into consideration that nothing could be out of place. Readjusting the hair behind my ear for the sixth time, I relaxed my shoulders. All the clenched muscles had gone back to their regular pose and my butterflies ceased their calamity.
With my head held down my eyes darted from; floors to chairs, my hands to my phone, and then to the various people around the room. The walls appeared to cave in and the tables too were closer now.
How had this began?
A desire embedded itself and began excavating the many cautionary parts of my heart. I had not wanted to plummet through the air as an asteroid determining that earth can be a new home. I had taken steps to be distant and close the door on my way out
It’s latch was suppose to catch the lock. Up and down the aisles, I fought with not only myself but the deceitfulness that had brought me here. The frigid waves rode up from the sea and carried me as lifeless as Ophelia. I came floating through the times of the past. Those who had pricked my fingers for a sign of sacrifice would be in for a rude awakening.
Time has ran circles around me. I was not suppose to bring up the scent of his cologne sauntering around me. No, his voice should be foreign now (pun intended). I had urged myself to completely submit to change and ride it’s coattails. With an adjustment of my sweatshirt, I took a deep sigh and
thought perhaps my past would never explain this madness.

Why I don’t want to introduce myself

The pleasure is mine –
To waltz in between the lines,
And kick up something untamed.
I’d rather sway,
Simply dance away,
Where you can’t find me always.
The pleasure is mine –
To run out of time,
Explaining why I didn’t commit such crimes,
Of keeping in touch.
My words stay hushed,
Cheeks flushed
That I won’t introduce who I am
No thanks sir and ma’mm