My eyes float along
the gray in the distance,
where trees meet sky,
searching for some small spot of light
among such dense clouds.
Paintbrushed wisps of wind
make the prettiest pictures
but it is the sunshine underneath
buried by soft suede
that I want playing on my skin.
I miss summer and the way the humidity leaves my hair a frizzled mess.
I miss summer and the way watching lighting bugs can calm a soul.
I miss summer and the low lull of night against the strong heat.
I miss summer and the golden skin the sun leaves through my SPF.
I miss summer–
and the way it reminds me of how you looked at me under that big moon the night you asked me to wear your ring.
<3
The smell of stale air
chilled in this room
strikes my nose with a fierce force.
The way winter appears
at whatever time it chooses
will always leave me baffled,
scratching the dryness that
makes home in my hair.
And almost always
sniffling later.
Carry away with my heart
as far as you feel is right.
To the sun or to the night,
you choose the pace, the distance,
the plain day of weather.
And I’ll tag along behind
grasping at your shirt tails,
because that is what lovers simply do.
I clench my jaw,
hoping to still the shake
in the remainder of my body,
a constant frightened shiver
that agonizes on without intervention.
Winter is waging in full force this morning,
temperatures at the bottom
and a matching wind to stab
at my stinging weak fingers.
We need to migrate for the winter,
somewhere the sun can thaw
my poor cold-leaden body.
Remember last year when I started seriously pursuing publication of a few of my poems? And it was going to happen? Well, the time is here, people.
My poem is in print, in a (very small) publication, out into the world and hopefully in someone’s hands. I never used to like the idea of others reading anything I had written, but now the thought is almost thrilling. It was a long anxious wait, but well worth it. It gives me a boost again to pull out the ole Moleskine and get some words and thoughts onto paper (which has been coming slightly easier lately anyway).
Copies can be found here. Christine Walen is the editor and publisher of Atlantic Pacific Press so it’s a small, and very “homemade” type of publication. Think paper and staples. Good for a first publication, I think, because it just makes me want to keep going with it and send in more to different places.
Where my heart goes
in the quiet times
between work and wedding
and stress
is straight to yours.
The sun shines in
through dark curtains
on a Sunday morning
and your breath against my shoulder,
arm stretched across my chest,
holds me clinging to sleep.
You are the calm
that brings my heart
to life,
slow and steady.
We laid under that cotton candy
blue sky for hours,
a million humid seconds
of my life, hovering around
with nothing but your words
to make them important.
Life wheeled around us.
People went to work,
came home and made themselves
forget that tomorrow
they would do the same.
Green grass grew slowly.
The sweet air that whispered
against my skin
made itself to you
then moved on again.
Something happened there
to our friendship
and it was more
than just the wind’s sass.
I wanted to break into a run,
cut through the air between us
and be standing so close to you
that your breath warmed my chilled skin.
You had been gone for 11 days
and even for a girl like me,
11 days is too long.
You smelled the same,
strong and musky,
and the tattoos hadn’t faded one shade,
still silvery and beautiful.
Your heart, too,
had filled up again
when my green eyes met your blue.
I was afraid that if I wrapped
my arms around you,
felt your waist against mine,
I couldn’t let go again.
And it was so real
until I woke up alone.
Like silk on sandpaper
you soften me, slowly,
tracing over my rough patches
with a light determined diligence.
The hush of your breath
against my shivering cheek
sends rivets of relief
clear down to my fingers
and finally, I feel you.
That inked skin of yours
soothes mine in
all the right ways.
It’s here in the dark
that we have our
best conversations.
I am writing again. Really writing. And feeling. And putting feelings onto paper.
It’s such a relief. Something in me craves the release of that kind, of being able to see it and feel it and go back to remember if I need to.
It’s like breathing for me. If I don’t write for a while, I feel stagnant, like everything is just going along and has little meaning. Like things are growing but can’t bloom.
Life is better for me with words. Words that actually say something. Words that paint a picture in a person’s mind. Each one beautifully different than the next.
I’ve got a new journal with hundreds of blank pages and a pen waiting to be drained of its ink.
Even when you
aren’t convincing me,
you really are.
Because I already know it
and feel it
and one thousand percent
believe it.
You were absolutely
made for me
to love.
I have a shuddering pain
that leaves me
blinking back tears
choking back words
holding onto a kind of anxious
that grounds me
and tells me to stay.
Slowly, it passes,
the calm circles
its way back
and sets itself in my lap again.
The colors return to normal
and smiles are easy.
But oh, that pain,
it is called worry.
somewhere the wind blows warm
across sand so soft
it can’t be seen floating through the air
whispering to the happiness filling each second.
somewhere someone has no worries
no cares and no dreams
because the sunshine is
just enough dream by itself.
somewhere someplace
in a land far enough I can’t see
they don’t know about real life
and struggles and fights
and tears.
but, me, I like just where I am
with you.
Somewhere there is
a universe
waiting
on magic,
looking for us
to entangle
our arms
around it
and run.
let’s stay in, me and you,
out of the rain
to hide from the gray
that weighs everything heavy
and makes anything happy
seem a little bit less.
hide with me all day.
there may not be any energy
left for anything else
but I’d rather use it all
loving you.
I’ll sip my wine slowly,
staring at the sweet red with glazed eyes
making it last long enough
to let my heart relax.
I’ll be counting on you
to hold me together on those days
when falling apart seems to sound
like the easiest thing to do.
You and the smell of cologne
at your neck collar.
Hold me together
however you like.
Just do it as often as I need
and when I decide to cry,
let me, or not.
Whatever will work,
I cannot say.
I only promise to return
the favor.
I’ll drink you in, light-hearted love,
and forget everything heavy.
I woke up, alert and aggressive
like the red hot anger melted
from my subconscious to my blood
with the widening of my eyes.
Her image was still fresh
and the questioning expression
was perfectly placed on her face
like she has been there only
to aggravate me into silence.
I hated her more then
than when I fell asleep
the night before.
They are the hardest on me
and sweetest and most honest
and most protective.
I fit right in at 4th
and am good at the
little sister, big sister thing.
Old enough to know what’s good,
too young to care.
And they’re good at 1,2,3,5.
(Five. It’s a good number.)
We are our own
little exclusive group.
We are the
brothers and sisters.
It was sweet and warm like vanilla,
heavy across your collarbones
and gently infused with all things of you.
It was a comfort when I cried
and breathed in your hugs.
It was just enough to know
you were always there,
like I could lie my head on that smell
the same as a pillow
to snuggle up and be safe.
It was always you there
wrapping me up in your tangy scent too.
One spritz made a million memories
and whenever I need a reminder,
I can smell my childhood
at the perfume counter.
They told me I would know.
I’d feel it.
I’d see it.
It would be right
when it was supposed to be.
Then there you were,
and everyone that came before you
was just practice for this moment.
As cruel as a blistered sunburn,
a stubbed toe,
an invisible paper cut,
tired eyes,
a nagging hangnail,
a banged funny bone,
a pulled muscle.
This is all of those things,
only worse.
The first time I heard that song,
the yellow highway stripes were
holding a conversation with my mind,
blinking past faster than I could count
and lulling my eyes to heaviness.
Life was in my view,
home behind me
and the wind all around.
I was right between
who I was and
who I wanted to be
and all I could do was
try.
In The Process of Living 