glass
chinks and chunks
clinking
sharp and beautiful
unexpectations, unexceptions
intriguing
blood on tongue
inhaling humid air
no breeze in sight
and back into soapy
sink of glass
Secret Storms
The lightening comes in
long sideways windows.
I am sitting in my basement
on a couch that
smells like bonfire wood
that hasn’t yet been burned–
my secret getaway
right in the middle of the open
lights-out room.
It’s 1 am and I am
watching old episodes
of old TV shows
and laughing hard enough
I worry I might wake up
the house.
I hide away in storms.
I hide away in secrets.
Where The Sweet Things Lie
Sweet things sleep in empty beds
of swapped imaginations–
You in mine and I, in yours,
Sweetly dreaming hope’s sensations.
Sweet things are the seeds that fall
When we shake our tearing hearts.
Unlocking from the fibrous walls
Our inner, scary parts.
Sweet things ride upon the words
Of all our insecurities
Right up to the upper third
out past our chattering teeth.
Then carried on our windy sighs,
sweet things hardly know
that in the fracture of goodbye
sweet things are often sewn.
Sweet things start to burrow down,
Way down deep inside me.
I feel them stretching out their roots
searching rich and lovely.
There are sweet things on the surface
and sweet things buried deep.
Sweet things from your world to mine
to grow the flowers we keep.
the last ten minutes
in the last ten minutes I may have fallen
in love
what
if that’s what a heart lying
alone on the floor means
splayed not like
before
heart only waits for
you
to lay on it eyes
of gentle words
sincere
wholeness and healing
long needed
in the last ten minutes waiting
became
now
i am lying on the floor
When I Miss You
When I miss you,
I fall out of bed.
I dream of you calling me
and I am scared.
I don’t want to love you.
I don’t want to know you.
I miss you all the same.
You call me from prison.
You call me from the depths of regret.
You call me from a town called Sinister.
You call me from my childhood.
I miss you at night
when I seek to be whole.
When I miss you,
I am overtaken with shock
and I fall out of bed.
I am caught in an inhale…
I am caught in an inhale.
My tongue is breezily still,
fluttering with words
not allowed to be said
yet.
My teeth are
calmly worried
they will be too sharp
for the words
still crawling
out.
Everyone is whispering,
“Just hold it in a little longer.”
I am caught in an inhale
and I don’t know when I will let go.
Writing in the Shower
Saturday and Sunday evening found me in great irritation. Despite my goal of making 2011 a more restful year, all the life happening lately was putting me off. Instead of my reading and writing, I’ve wanted to nap, watch TV, and eat popcorn for the last two days.
I said to my sister, “What’s wrong with me?!” She said, “Nothing.” And it was simply that–nothing was wrong, but that I needed a break. I needed to quiet my mind and really listen to a part of me that needed attention. It was that part that sometimes gets misinterpreted when it speaks, turning me to TV and popcorn and avoidance behaviors.
“Where is my quiet place today?” I asked myself. I heard, “Take a shower. Let’s start there.”
I breathed in, and in, and in, then finally out into the steamy tile. Here is what my tiny voice said:
I held what words I could in my mind until I could get upstairs, put water on to boil, and a get a pen in my hand. While the pot wheezed and the kitchen remained a mess, I sang the lines above to absolutely no one but myself. The pen slipped across the page; my irritation slipped out of my heart.
Well, that’s done and I feel better. Does this poem-song of sorts mean something significant? Is it life-changing? Is it mind-blowing or on its way to a Pulitzer? Is it even true? If nothing, it is peace-bringing. If everything, it is taking care of myself. I took a shower, I made a cup of tea, and I wrote down a few words on a piece of paper.
How did you take care of yourself today? How will you take care of yourself tomorrow?
Here’s the poem if you can’t read my hurried handwriting:
There is a color, color,
a color in my mind.
It is a mist-
misty, morning white.
There is a sound, sound
awakening my ear.
It is a vacant, lot that’s
lost its grandeur.
There is a touch, touch,
at my fingertips, a touch.
It is a sharp blade of grass
I love too much.
There is a smell, smell,
drifting up my nose.
It is a wild, white,
Canterbury rose.
There is a taste, a taste,
sweet and bitter on my tongue.
It is a man who has
already come and gone.
Calm Ocean Day: In Vision
Last summer, I wrote a poem. Last fall, I posted it here. This winter, a new friend surprised me with his visualization of it. Here it is. Thanks, M.
Pie, Piano, and Poetry II
After months of joyously watching my sister carry on our Pie, Piano, and Poetry traditions in Indiana, around Christmas I grew eager enough to go out on a limb. I realized that soulful photographer and hostess of Urban Porch Songs, Danica Myers, would be the perfect collaborator for an event in Northeast Minneapolis. I e-mailed her like it was 2001.
We started making plans sometime in January and ended up with a house full of beautiful hearts on Friday, February 25, 2011. The Minnesota chapter of Pie, Piano, and Poetry is officially an excellent idea.
Visit Danica’s blog for more reflections and photos of the evening’s sharing. Then, dear friends, go, create, share.
(Do feel free to share your art here, if you wish, by the way.)
Home
I carry my home in my heart,
but sometimes the wind carries me
high and cold.
Then my home is seen
flashing and bursting so briefly
in the faint light of winter skies.
And only the ghosts can see
that I am jumping hard
into the door of my home
chanting,
“Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.”
Naphtalia 