Sep 05

Landscapes of Summer 2019

Aug 23

back in Vermont for the last handful of August

queen of the field once again, I return triumphant.
I want to live
in the place where leaves come from,
where the raspberries
are born on the bush,
the space between 
impossibility and abundance.
blueberry stained dress from lying in the sun, 
not a care in the world:
I eat a plum by the fire pond
in six bites.
clung to by grass and no one else,
being somewhat let go has not left me feeling freedom-
my independence has come
from being very fiercely loved,
if only by myself and the clouds.

and, oh, there are so many clouds.
Apr 29


It crept up so slowly I could barely hear its hollowed footsteps. It crept up
soft as April creeps up
when you can barely tell the beginning of spring
from the end of autumn.

I didn’t always have words. Now I can reach a bucket down inside my chest,
draw up pails full of them, but then
I didn’t know the words for the curve of her neck is so smooth
her hair makes my skin feel on fire
her smile makes me want to hold her hand.

Didn’t have the words for
shouldn’t tell your friends this
to say
it’s not my job to correct the blunders of every family member
to respond to
was he a nice boy?
when I went on a date with a girl.

So now April has crept up, and
the sun warm on my skin almost makes me miss winter, makes me miss
not having to justify my existence
to chirping birds, woodpeckers hammering my house.

Today I know the words
Apr 02

the inconvenience of memory

Easy to forget the important things,
Brother's birthday,
French verb forms,
doctor's appointments,
the oven you left on.
So why can't I forget 
the color of nail polish I was wearing?
Can't forget
my cherry earrings,
how one of my socks was white and
the other was cream (some unimportant Thursday.)
I remember the eye color
of every person I've ever liked 
all the words to 
camp songs, insurance jingles,
plot points of "Grey's Anatomy," season 8,
who sat next to me our last dinner in Galway,
the worst thing my mother has ever said to me.
Things that don't matter anymore.
Things that never mattered.
Things I'd like to forget.
Things I'd quickly replace with
the equation of a parabola,
or the molecular weight of water.

But my memory has a sense of humor.
Jan 30

Ten things that made me want to cry today

(ode to wednesday mornings)

I wake up at
six o’clock
and the sun hits my ceiling
and clings to my
so hard I have to blink it away

I stand in the majesty
of the same sun
streaming through the bathroom window
and it is
better, less of a sadness
and more of a heavy appreciation
as I spit foamy mint in the sink
let myself remember
you are in pajamas
the house is quiet
school is hours
and you miss your mother

an odd feeling of
towards little piggy/little simon
and their unfortunately youthful faces
with the milkweed hair of
and the impending sense of doom
that surrounds them
reminding me why I hate movies
(lord of the flies)

a glowing
reward far off in the distance
the setting sun
of a western movie
Jan 16

I lived in a city once

New York
is a heartbeat;
my heartbeat,
as the electric subway flies
down the tracks
like a silver strike
of lightning.

I have a yellow strand of 
crepe paper
wrapped around my neck, 
a string of sunshine fighting
the glow of Times Square around my shoulders,
free souvenir of
SpongeBob the musical,
a giddy throwback to
age 7,
when I lived in a city.

I never lived in New York,
only Boston,
with its maze of streets,
the corner store walking distance,
ice cream bars in the sticky
heat of summer.
New York is more methodical
than this.

but sleepless,
we eat pasta across from the hotel
minutes before midnight,
I don't understand the language
the patrons at the table
behind us speak,
but it's an odd sense
of peace to not be alone in the restaurant. 

The next morning,
Jan 15

a poem for the friend who drinks coffee in the morning

I am a disposable
plastic cup
someone left me lying
on your driveway.
and rain,
it washed away my logo
just a smear of
Green now.
I wish you saw me the way I see me.
every time you slight me
I’m empty/disposable/Green
you don’t bother
to put me out of my misery
(throw me away)
maybe someday
when I run out of mugs
I can put my coffee in the litter on the ground

thought no one, ever.
But I have to believe
I’m some kind of
backup to you,
cuz if I’m not
you don't care/ just left me here to rot
(And in case you were wondering

Dec 19
poem 0 comments challenge: Wordgame

Give me a word I: "Fog"

I've started a little game where my friends give me a word and I try to write something with it. Up first is "Fog" (thanks Cam). 

Eyes like two cups
of coffee
stirred with cream
and sugar,
warmth and brightness that
barely shield us 
the surrounding woods
fog hangs heavy in the air
a thick vapor
a wall between her eyes
and whatever lies ahead.
Dec 12

Why I haven't been writing

After the summer, I always get a rather large bout of writer's block. This isn't new to me, it's been happening ever since I became serious about writing. But this year was a little different. I wrote more this summer than I've written any other summer, and I came back to school feeling drained and exhausted, like the river of words that has always run through me ran dry. All my humanities assignments sucked every last bit of writing energy out of me, and my journal and notes app having been filling with dust and cobwebs since September. By November, I felt extremely guilty about not having written for a while. I tried to force whatever poetry I could out of me. I turned to old sources of inspiration, because nothing around me was inspiring anymore. Writing felt like a tedious chore, and I hated that. That's the thing; I can't write if I feel pressured. And I was pressuring myself.
Dec 11

A moment of quiet in the locker room

One shoe off
then the other.

Quiet besides the
rhythmic replacement of clothing
fabric against my skin.
The lights don’t buzz
the sink doesn’t drip
for once
my day is quiet as
nights on Inis Mor
I the only one awake
Good Will Hunting was over
and we in our corner room were tucked in.
Me, climbing out of bed
socked feet padding
to the window
and the breeze was
Cape Cod
my grandmother
my childhood
cookies from boxed mix
and books from eight cousins.

I existed in many places suddenly
in the picture frame on my mantle
in the surf at the bay
in that quiet little room
in my sister’s heart
in the empty locker room after class
in my memories
as I unmade 
and then
myself again
taking off one version to
be another. 

One shoe
then the other.