All the poems.

Here, have some poems. Lots of poems. All free verse, because that’s how I roll, yo. Old ones, new ones…some I like and some I don’t, particularly. But here you go anyway.

Escape

the warm smell of asphalt under our tires

as the yellow lines fly past,

as the past flies out the open window.

we don’t owe each other anything,

this time,

and the freedom of the road overcomes the fear of falling.

 

~

i dreamed of you last night

you + me, in a car,

holding hands.

the sun’s dipping over the horizon,

the sky’s painted in golds and pinks and deep, deep blue

and we’re not kissing

but we might as well be.

 

~

you (don’t) know who you are

My name is heartbreaker,

yellow sun.

You must be lonely tonight,

or I wouldn’t have crossed your mind.

Do you hear the birds singing,

when we walk together?

Do you see the treetops swaying in the breeze?

Or can you, like me, hear only the words we speak,

see only our faces, our together-beauty?

 

~

Happily (we hope) Ever After

Once upon a time,

there was a princess.

(She may have been in a tower –

the details are unclear.)

Of course she was beautiful.

Of course she was kind.

Of course she was loved.

She leaves the safe castle, or possibly tower –

(i know, silly girl, but otherwise

there wouldn’t be much story, you see) –

and she makes her way into the dark forest.

Somehow she finds danger.

(It doesn’t find her. She’s a princess,

not a damsel.)

She dances with danger.

A tango, probably.

Maybe a foxtrot. You never know.

Of course she comes out unscathed.

 

And of course there’s a handsome prince,

who rides up on his white horse,

waving his gleaming sword.

Of course he’s charming.

(Charm comes easily,

when one’s entire life is politics and tact.)

But – spoiler alert! – here’s where our tale

diverges.

 

The princess looks at the prince.

He smiles toothily. She can almost see the trademark glimmer.

He squares his shoulders. She can see how strong he is.

He offers her, loudly, his kingdom and his heart.

She can see her future in his sapphire-blue eyes:

a cold castle, children left to a nurse’s care,

heavy velvets, false smiles, stone walls.

 

The princess turns her head

and there’s danger, watching her.

It raises one sardonic eyebrow,

and it holds out a long-fingered hand.

She laughs,

and takes its arm,

and together they whirl down a new path.

 

 

Multifaceted.

Another one, slightly updated, from Boulder.

NOVEMBER THE TWENTY-THIRD

Today I am devil in a blue dress.

Today I am skilled labor,

creatrix,

loved

and loving,

whistler of a happy tune.

Yesterday I was a gray bird in a gray tree under a gray sky

with no voice to sing.

Tomorrow, perhaps, I will be:

river-goddess

singer of a thousand songs

eater of hearts

consumer, both of the cultural and the cinnamon-roll variety.

 

The next day, I will be

adventurer

flyer

at-home daughter

Mademoiselle Patience

giver of heart-gifts

and maker of poems.

Quote of the Week

I’m starting a new series. Each week I’ll post a quote that has touched my heart, intrigued my mind, or sparked my imagination. It can be from a book, movie, lecture, sermon…anything. This week’s quote is by C.S. Lewis, from The Four Loves: Charity.

There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable.

Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket – safe, dark, motionless, airless – it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.

I believe that the most lawless and inordinate loves are less contrary to God’s will than a self-invited and self-protected lovelessness…

The Difference Between Looking You in the Eye and Practicing in the Mirror

(alternate title: This Heading Is Almost Longer Than The Poem It Names)

NOVEMBER THE SEVENTEENTH

I wanted to say:

    you’re beautiful, fascinating

    I’m sorry for – everything

I wanted to say:

     come with me, let’s go

     adventure waits

I wanted to say:

     I’ve never met anyone quite like you

     I’ve never spoken with anyone quite like this

 

I said, blushing:

     “Hi.”

 

an oldie or two.

These were both written in Boulder, before I moved back to the land of ocean and rain.

Why I Write

“For future generations,” they say.

“For those who come after.”

 

This is for those who are here now,

in this moment,

breathing this air

with me.

 

This is for the beauty of now.

This is for those we love today

and those we’ll leave tomorrow.

 

Security

I feel

like the smallest matryoshka,

nestled securely into the bosoms

of my mother, grandmother, ancestors.

Even when we are separated,

my matryoshka family and I,

I am still part of the whole,

still the newest in a line

stretching back into the old traditions

none of us remember anymore.

 

Anthropologie wtfery (an open letter)

Dear Anthropologie,

I love you, you know that. I may or may not have an unhealthy obsession with you (if it’s not diagnosed, I can still deny it, right? Right?). But you, dear, lovely, wonderful store of my heart, have some RIDICULOUS prices. I’m not even talking here about your lovely silk skirts, Pendleton wool jackets (covet covet covet), or strange(ly attractive) lace-up boots that make my little heart go pitter-pat. What I’m referencing here is, in fact, your brand new Christmas ornament collection.

Which looks like it was chosen or made by me circa 1994.

Case in point:

 Beads on a string, y’all. For $48.

I remember making these in second grade. They looked about the same, too. Only ours cost a lot less than $18-36.

…okay, this guy is freakin’ adorable, not gonna lie. But he’s also $16. For a papier-mache newspaper octopus. At that price, I could make 20 of him, I’m pretty sure.

And I probably will. Because octopi are cool.

This has to be my favorite. While it’s lovely, it’s also pieces of scrap paper on a stick. Again, for $48.

There are other amazingly silly and expensive ornaments at Anthropologie’s website. I especially like the glittery vegetables toward the middle of the page. The set of five would be $88 before shipping. They’re not even particularly lovely vegetables – onion, artichoke, carrot, radish, and fig (which, not a vegetable, but still weird). I mean, who goes to their spouse and says, “You know what, honey, I think we should put ugly root vegetables on our Christmas tree this year. Don’t look at me like that! They’re sparkly!”

I’m seriously considering instigating a holiday craft party at our house. We can get sticks, paper, gluey substances, beads, and string, and save ourselves hundreds of dollars! Occupy Christmas – Take Back the Holidays! Can I get a “huzzah”?

wonderful (isnt it

NOVEMBER THE SEVENTH

wonderful(isnt it, ee?)

how prose becomes       poem

         with just

                          a

                              few

judicious linebreaks

?

(and maybesome unusual – punctuation)!

 

 

a good season for falling

NOVEMBER THE SIXTH

The world is full of love.

Earth kisses sky kisses stars,

hard ground embraces fallen leaves,

meaningful glances flit between branches.

 

Autumn is a good season for falling.

Cuddle your sweetheart close

as the cool air crisps the end of your nose,

hands clasped tight against the chill.

 

Alone, I dance down silent streets

after today’s lovers have gone.

I pass lit windows and dark porches,

leaping, ducking and weaving.

 

Cupid, if your arrows can’t find their mark,

please don’t be alarmed.

It’s just that I am in love with autumn,

and autumn with me.

 

Henna.

NOVEMBER THE FOURTH

These dark lines on my skin

breathe of spices and sand and sweat,

of faraway lands and exotic fruits

and kohl-lined eyes.

 

They are not my heritage, no –

but there is an echo of woad,

though the dye that darkened the skin of my ancestors was blue.

Echoes there are also of tribal motifs,

tattooed with bone needles upon becoming a woman;

and echoes there are of delicate flowers 

that adorned the tapestries of great drafty castles,

stitched with care by many daughters’ hands.

 

The centuries have not touched this.

Though now we carefully trace patterns

by the blue lights of modern day,

we are still connected to those ancient women

through the soothing whisper of the brush across skin,

the gentle murmur of a shared laugh,

and the smile whose meaning hasn’t changed

in a thousand years.

 

a dance

NOVEMBER THE THIRD

 

dancing slowly

to words that mean something

to a melody that speaks to me

to no purpose but joy

 

turning, stepping

for the love of existing

for the song in my veins

for no one’s eyes but mine

 

moving gently

through steps only I know

through and past the lines we’ve drawn

through air charged with yes