Poet

On my most open page

I have been hiding.

Beneath the folds

of the library's master -

I sheltered there...

lapped the ink,

dried the page.

How I loved it.

Not a soul

hath tasted the nature

of my organic words -

Though,

they breathe for you.

At sanity's end,
I closed the book!

&, oh,

how it did defeat me to...

I lain,
a misery.

Until paper found my palm again...

Heaven, Haels! My ill-forgotten friend.

I was mistaken.

It is this pen

I live in.

Pretty

Maybe tomorrow I'll be pretty.

or Tuesday.

Sometimes,

I'll be pink for a day

just to say I was pretty.

But other days I feel so..

blue.

But then, the beauty takes me away -

to some other shade of orange...

Something like a sunset;

One you'd never thought to see,

hazed in pretty purple pieces of me.

Sensibility

Why...
these words, ugly,
Ever haunting the homes of the once known?
Consuming lost meaning,
defining lives, all our own.

I say,
everything is nothing;
& in a dream,
I found 8 impossible things
before breakfast,
& fed them to my cat
who said "quite honestly,
nothing is ours."

So we left,
through an open window.
Because you said so, sensibly.

Self-worth

Only given worth to myself;

I am empty upon the shelf.

Told by word of mouth,

breathed to mean it,

but couldn't shout --

It is me.

When I greet the setting sky,

jet the blackness in my eyes,

crease the curse across my thighs...

It is me.

& when I eat the open 'morrow,

rest my worries,

calm my sorrow

I can live,

for it is me

that I live for.

Bleach

This is the bleach on the walls.

Where I want to live.

Where I was born to become from.

Grey clouds make droplets of tasteful love

leftover petals

from the honey flower I chewed.

Mother called

& through the clean screen door

I smelled warm bread

& the plastic of our short rug.

In a kind of heavenly happiness

I float inside the room

laughing sweetly

with everyone else around me.

What a comfort,

what a clean slate.

ELIZABETH by Edgar Allan Poe

Elizabeth, it surely is most fit

(Logic and common usage so commanding)

In thy own book that first thy name be writ,

Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
And I have other reasons for so doing
Besides my innate love of contradiction;
Each poet - if a poet - in pursuing
The muses thro' their bowers of Truth or Fiction,
Has studied very little of his part,
Read nothing, written less - in short's a fool
Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,
Being ignorant of one important rule,
Employed in even the theses of the school-
Called - I forget the heathenish Greek name
(Called anything, its meaning is the same)
"Always write first things uppermost in the heart."

(Zeno, a philosopher who said "that one's own name should never appear in one's own book")

Who You Are

One could argue 

all the day

on the way the world moves;

Captivating clouds, and sand storm grooves.

Though the only true thing

it comes right down to

is the mortal you choose to be,

and how much love you'll let loose.

Predator

Everything is in short focus,

lights are falling down,

scattered among the broken glass -

footsteps all around.

Empty was the creatures crate,

steady was the pace,

captured were the humans who

ne'er won the race.

Meddling in Mother's Garden

A stick in the mud.

Critters come to cuddle,

meddle in grubs,

their feet in the hollow.

That poor old sap

spilling its drink

on old folks

in petticoats --

Lizards licking sheep 

in anger...

You know,

we were taught to be strangers.

I told you, behave;

Who are we?

Animals among the trees

taking drinks from our cups

that double as voice?

Never a day we not be at rest -

where we not love our cousin, nature.

Where we not be free as bark on trees.

This day never come,

but it be meant to.

A Northwestern Family

One day, you will be all mine.

We will live beneath the trees and above the moss.

Our legs will feel light as we trudge over rocks & waterfalls.

The rain will be your love & the mountains your muse.

We will walk along the strings of higher education

& run with the forested roads.

The city will light up in Big Pink, & purple lights.

The town's people will forever love Voodoo & a Rocky sort of Horror.

I could not imagine your tiny hands growing,

any place other than where mine grew.

I know you will love the light air & chilled mornings.

The snowy holidays & brisk summers.

We will live in a brick built home

surrounded by evergreen trees.

Cool outside, but we sit cozy.

Warmed by the vibrant fire.

I will love him,

he will love me,

& we will love you my darlings

in a Northwestern home.

The Girl Who Reads Slam Poetry

I never chose to be what I am,

some woman of poetry;

a victim of slam?
& never meant I,

to take this road,

.

.

.

down.

But fate led me.

My parents wrote the diary:

Yes, they who,

laid hands...

Just to escape the world's way,

their day to day.

&

It kinda grows on you,

the way the world disapproves

of, a slammed down, me,

except in poetry...

& I never asked for this,

unenlightened sense,

of

only me.

The Girl Who Reads Slam Poetry.

A Couple

This rhombus of your love

envelops me,

laps my tears;

folding them

into worry no more.

I am reborn

to you -

One day,

I hope

you will be
unto me
too.

Somewhere On A Star

I looked up today.

Wrote you in my mouth.

But I fell in a frenzy

when I couldn't see your eyes.

How dark it is here

without you...

anxious

Ever to fit
in a box
made of crumbs,
soaked in the mercy
of dishes last night.

The Liar

Every corner holds a shadow of you.

I am awakening to the day

where the wall be stained bare...

I'll find the truth 

beneath the Liar's stare.

This tale was not spun,

nor were these eyes given

ever in your wisdom.

Bold faced

bare chest.

Will you find another?

No, never will you.

Walls breathe, tundra

frozen over solid;

Beneath its crust,

a thousand cores,

and at the very pit

a Liar there. 

Country Song

This girl,

she keeps me guessing -

I call her my Darling.

Oh, my darling,

darling, Darling what'd you do?

My Darling sent me roaming,

after lattes in Wyoming.

Now I'm roaming around to Jackson,

maybe Casper, sometimes Cheyenne;

All because I went and gave my love to...

Just like a meadowlark,

you struck me yellow -

I saw sparks;

Guess they never caught fire onto you.

I'd like to try pretending

that this ending wasn't foreseen

but my Darling still went & left me blue.

Now I'm claiming territory,

& I'm waking in the morning

over lattes, in Wyoming

like we used to.

In Empathy

In Empathy - other realities be seen.
Yet no soul
that I have found
hath ever ate this notion.

It set the tone for today -

Our world
be too much for one soul bare.

Though,
what if
all souls
bathed in empathy?

Then, what could we be?


Weightless.
Nirvana.

we are clouds at sea

.

Jupiter's Eyes

Why must my busy mind meld my life so?
Be it such a curse,
to grow an opinion
on the wildest daydream
I had ever imagined?
Be it insane
to then, write a book
on the physically studied world
which I had began?

Maybe
when my spirit rebirths
through the eye of my inner being,
I will be a moth;
Free
as the energy
that I am.

Normal - Almost that

Such a conglomeration of nonsense
my day-to-day seems
to always consist of.

If only I could turn off the noise:
The vehicles rushing,
buildings growing
empty,
and the hushed tone
of my happiness
sobbing in the corner.

If only
the way this life changed
was normal.
Maybe I would be too...
maybe.

A Story of Love

I was thinking of you, darling.

Concocting a word, picture, story, a shape.

Something that in one handful, would tell you how much you mean to me.

But the word never comes,

the picture never starts,

and the story shapes up to be perfectly, you and I.

& I stand, staring at the blank page;

for cities of wishes and kind words could be spilled from these lips for days

but can never fit our storybook here on this flat blank page.

For, you see, you mean too much

for a word or a photo to complete

everything you mean to me,

everything we will grow to be.

Nothing could ever speak enough

so today, I will leave you with love.

The Nine to Five Writer

It is knowing this body must endure
something more than
a regular nine to five -
without flipping a lid.

No losing your temper,
feeling bad,
or relaxing
for eight hours,
every single day,
five days
mercilessly
in sequence
perpetually.

Though
fear not!
For, two days are rewarded.
Two days of
kind-of-stay-here-we-need-you-for-your-job-later
freedom.

So here is to Sunday,
Monday's ugly cousin.

An Ode To Elevators

Thank you,
for bringing me up
when I was down.
I began there,
long ago,
stagnant
at level one
Now here I stand,
a successful level three.
You are so uplifting!
Oh elevator,
how I look up to thee.

Alive in the Northwest

If only
the sky danced
along valleys of pine,
we could climb
on to the other side
where we'd find
each other.

Dance
in wind-struck fields of
lilies.
Harbor us,
these empty souls.
Weeping on
a flower bed,
scattered,
a northwest rose.

A Not-So-Strange Heart

You are... everything.
You are mountains I make of fragile thoughts & things.
Crammed them together with hot-glue & string.
Tied with a knot, a kiss, & a ring.
A mountain of love, for you.