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.

Dec 11

a few skies

Oct 12


You Have To Be A Writer!
Emma said to me
finishing my letter
perfect painted fingernails
sliding creases closed.
She said this and
I remembered 
other things I thought I had to do;
call my mother,
go to sleep before
finish my article;
but I found
I preferred
eating cereal
in a hostel kitchen at 
one am
perched on the 
counter top
spoons delicate to bowls
like cotton on cotton
tears falling
for the home
we were soon to leave behind. 
Oct 02

Ireland in July

Oct 02

transformed sunday circles

sunday is for lying
in my pink bed,
staring at the ceiling,
my room
reddened by bouncing rays
of light,
turning the color of autumn leaves,
as the Cranberries sing about
zombies and
dreams and
you and me
into my ears.

sunday is
undone algebra growing
cold as the hours pass
as I lay instead of working and
the sun sets,
anxiety like boiling
water bubbling
under my skin,
unanswered phone calls
understood things that
still sting,
false apologies and 
eyes squeezed
world tuned

sunday is the shadow
of the lantern hanging from my window,
moving gently like a
setting moon,
eyes playing childish tricks
creamy white ceiling left
a transformed
sunday circle
lazily drifting by
as my world
Aug 03

Missed opportunity

I wonder
where my home is;
sense of
place must be
lost to me,
l must be
missing a sense
that points me there.
The park bench
sticks to my thighs, 
uncomfortably warm on
my shoulders. 
I almost
mistake the feeling for
his head resting on them,
sitting on M’s bed. 
I miss
his arms around me,
him stepping on my heels,
hugging me goodbye
in the airport 
awkward around
our backpacks
heading for different places. 
My dad was there,
his wasn’t
(I heard him call his father
on the phone,
he was
at the office),
I forgot to say
“I love you”
tell him
all the things I’d practiced 
(I said “I love you”
he thought
I meant it in a different way),
and then
his stupid comic-book
carried him away from me
towards his home,
away from mine. 
Jul 28


What does it mean to be 
Art and also
a creation of
yourself only,
a product of
Growth of
Time of
to be 
Important to someone and
Nothing to another?
To be
passed on the street 
and not Oggled
like the
unfinished Masterpiece 
you are?

(Something written while tired & sick & sad & missing some sort of home/some sort of family)
Jul 28

Inis Oirr II

Red tears run
on rock,
from this rusted mass
of metal.
I let my fingers
graze a dance
its surface.
A breath of wind
is a gentle sigh,
ruffling my coat
leaving a trail of bumps
on my arm.
It’s best not to
best not to
being gone.
But I won’t leave
a part of this island untouched,
a loose end untied,
a ship-wrecked boat unexplored.
I only have these few days.
And it’s not enough.
Jul 28

Inis Oirr I

A land of drought,
surrounded by
surrounded by
Misty mornings,
obscure the rocks
leading to the ocean.
Out the door
of our hostel is
little road,
then the open sea.
Telephone poles hover
like omens
in the distance,
I without my glasses
struggle to identify them.
Confusion swirls inside me,
I miss my family,
my bed,
but won’t I miss
this ashen-aired paradise
once I leave?