Month: March 2016

No sandbags to keep the water out

My whole heart aches for what I cannot tell my mother

We stand at either side of the stream, waving to one another, shouting

Come into the cool water ( I love you)

Come and see what I’ve reaped after I’ve sown

My worries and anxieties 

That grow like vines

My whole heart faces my father

And paddles out to him in the storm

Our canoes swishing like a rag being rinsed out again –

We will try again to forget our sorrows,

Saying

I’ve made tea 

Where the warmth feeling runs down our backs like waterfalls

I’ve made tea,

And there’s still some on the stove (I love you)
When I grew older, I kept things

Because I was afraid

That there wouldn’t be a parade of accomplishments

I was afraid that the path I choose,

Where I sense peace,

Will divide the lakes and the streams

My parents made me for me when I grew in the womb

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The whole world is on aux cord

The world is extremely too loud some days. 

Some days, I think I should have walked with Thoreau and Emerson with tranquility of fabricated nature posing as peace. Although, I believe peace can be found in nature. I am not one to hold to literal escapism, because frankly I need my phone. Yes, I am that generation who envisions their qwerty keyboards as old typewriter keys when writing poems. The world is too loud for me today. Every chomp and chew. Every “go this way” and “go that way” barely leaves with me enough time to sigh in anguish how I haven’t done enough. I nearly couldn’t find time to get lunch.

“You have plenty of time to decide”, they say. All the while, I am being pushed into a closet with cardboard boxes that have labels that do not match the items actually in them. I am escorted into a swanky classroom, where we must shed blood before our professors to prove “yes I am still breathing.” “No, I think this analysis doesn’t need corrections, because I cannot fix all of the corrections within myself.” These are things you cannot say in a workshop class.

The world is too loud. I read literature, poetry and the back of cereal boxes. I write in my journal that a brown eyed boy should not have that much power for a young woman to be distracted in her studies. His looks ain’t paying the tuition.

 Sometimes, I cannot stay where the people are. Sometimes, I look for the treasured empty place, where nothing but the birds call to one another. In this place, I can sit with my phone in hand and take a picture for later usage. I do not want to hear that I am not this or that enough. I do not want the impression of a hand slamming me back down to the height I was in the second grade – simply because I don’t follow everyone’s path. 

The world is too loud. I want quiet. I want quiet like an old man who is trying to sleep on the second floor of an apartment complex, but his neighbor right above him blares the riffraff of the TV at one am. 

Chewing on leafy concepts

We do not own people
We cannot scan barcodes,
Detailing their entire ancestry,
With hope to find some answer
As to why they are the way they are…now; present, past and future
We do not listen to the scratching of a pen on notebook paper,
Scrawling out the spaces in our vertebrae backbone,
Filing away at our worth in society.
Come down from there,
Come down,
And stand here next to the guillotine
Lacing your fingers in between their slits.

We do not love a people to own them

Run free,
Cake dirt on the soles of your feet,
And tell me that when you breathe, it doesn’t feel like you’re being cut through the air.
Love tastes like a plate full of one seed.
Little sprouted leaves ravage the dining table,
And love tastes like a forest.
I cannot cut it in half.
No bite sized pieces.
No dinner tray for one
No galleria of food,
That could be shared with the whole neighborhood.
We shall flow in and out
Back in and back out
Rise and collapse
Collapse and re-rise.
We do not own people,
Because are not the writers of them.

Plump Indescretion

A hand weighted my lifeline ,
Allowing the juicy meat of my heart
To barely fly mere centimeters
Into the air.
Upon my heart,
A hand softly squeezed around the pulp skin.
Traces of blood ran down his wrist
Soiling the folds of his shirt cuffs.
Upon my heart,
He looked down the hump of his nose,
And sneered how “I feel too much.”

***To be revised and expanded later

The house

My…haven’t you’ve grown.

I stood there in the doorframe, wondering if I should enter this house or not. The smell was still there. Oatmeal and my father’s musk settled on each couch cushion, traveled up the flight of stairs and nestled into the reading chair next to the window. A lot of times when you go home, you notice the things that have always been there but now they are distinct. The way the floor creaks outside of the bathroom. The way you can hear the pipes running from the downstairs kitchen sink, all the way to the walls of your room.
I like to think home never changes, and sometimes I tell lies saying that it hasn’t.
During summer, my mother used to open the small window in our cramped  kitchen. The tiny embroidered (and thrifted) curtains blew in and out with the wind. When I was about nine years old, I knew my mother had just made blueberry pie or lemon cake. The scent would travel down the porch steps and settle right in front of our house. The neighborhood kids knew when she made desserts too.
“Oh, Miss. You’re so nice and beautiful,” one of the kids said while twisting their waist side to side. With their hands clasped together, one foot making a circle on the floor, each kid knew how to ask for a slice of what My mother made.
My mother would offer them a nice sized slice and a glass of milk. My mother made sure if you asked, you would sit at the table – properly.

One day I’ll write another piece to hook on to Repercussions of Loving Too Deep.