Feb 17

Silent Evolution

I
The more words I have, 
the less there is to say. 

II
Thinking has become an act of 
meditation in which I run my 
fingers through my hair, 

III
ruining the curls and forcing 
them to become straight, limp tendrils 
that try to crown my face. My new 
silhouette is unnaturally natural. 

IV
Maybe I started with a base of two 
and that's how we got here. How do 
you do it? Speak so eloquently, I mean. 
Never quieting down. Always walking 
along a comprehensible path of paragraphs. 

V
Do my words still make sense? 
I'm fearing they sound strange. 
Do you know what I mean? 
See, this is why my dictionary 
might be better off 
tucked away in a storage bin. 

 
Jan 24

January's ice

The eave outside my window is 
crowded with bunches of 
sharp, clear icicles. I like to 

Think of them as well meaning, as 
guarding me from danger. I am not 
sure what kind of menace 

They expect to protect me from, but I 
have no plan to stop the ice. Every day 
brings a new formation of 

These ice soldiers: yesterday they 
took turns plummeting 
down to the frozen ground, and 

Today they are oddly shaped 
and clumpy along the sides. Is this 
the life of the Dane’s Snow Queen? Or maybe 

The cruel White Witch, secluded in Narnia 
with nothing but icicles 
outside her window?
Jan 15

Turnip Head

*note: all my grammar choices (ex. capitalizations in the middle of a sentence) are purposeful and serve a purpose to help me deliver the full meaning and intended feeling of this poem!

I met Turnip Head!

It was about two days ago, now 
that I think about it ––
yes, two days ago as that 

Was the wretched day 
I came down with that 
god awful fever ––

Anyways, I've met him! Out
he tumbled from the bag 
of vegetables, silent until 

I picked him up out of the heap,
(for he was a large turnip, worthy of admiration) 
turned him over in my hand, 

And saw a great big grin 
peeking out at me! I 
exclaimed in delight:

"It's Turnip Head! Here he is!" 
drawing people over to 
look on in wonder. 

For it truly was that silly 
Turnip Head ––
I suppose he wanted to follow me, too. 

Oh Turnip Head, how I love you.
Jan 09

Responding

I'll write you all responses on paper
      but struggle for the courage 
      to send them because 

To be like you is all I want –
      smelling of ashes and pine wood.
      The moon is glaring at me from above.

All of your words are hozhó
      (beauty). I wish I could feel
      to the extent you all do. 

How to articulate everything I am thinking?
      I have no memories of the place I
      was born, unlike you. Maybe I envy that.

Can I hug you? Let's talk 
      over some hot coffee (or tea!) and
      you can tell me whatever you like.

I'm your friend, built to listen.
      We are all diné (human) and I realize now 
      I am writing that from the Abenaki's land.

Your voices are beautiful; I love 
      your jean jackets and ruffled blue 
      shirts and red lipstick. 

Sometimes it feels like I don't have the courage for
Jan 09

Your Poetry

I read your poems. No, I
devour your poems. They are
beautiful.

Each one leaves me with such want,
pure longing. How does one live 
a life like that? How does one see 
the world like that? You are a 
mystery unsolved in my mind. 

There is tangible feeling in every line
you write and 
sometimes I feel as if I will burst 
open into a ripely green forest, full of 
all the similes you craft.

I devour your poetry.
Dec 06

Shea Butter

In autumn, I
started to use the bar of
shea butter 
          imprinted with wildflowers
that you made so patiently for me.

          I never allow myself
          to write about you.

It had been wrapped in wax paper
that you had drawn blue hearts on, and
carefully tied tightly with a
piece of twine.

The shea keeps my legs smooth. 
I like it. Did I ever tell you 
about the way my sister pronounces 
shea? "Shay-uh" instead of just "shay."

Today the scars from summer camp
on my left leg decided to reappear and 
they brought back so many memories. 

Those faint, almost arbitrary white slashes 
scattered across my knee and shin are 
there because I tried to run too fast. 

          It's not that surprising. 
Nov 24

Floss

I ran out of floss and I suppose 
that makes things easier for now but
I know this will come back to get me, 
undeniably at the worst time. 

I am hungry but 
I have no appetite. I 
wonder how many days will be 
spent like this, pretending 
to be none the wiser. Because 
food is not a comfort anymore - it merely
exists to fill my belly and there used to
be a sort of pleasure in those 
momentous feasts but
no longer. 

Half the time I come home 
to find my heart broken in two, but
usually it sits calmly.

The days we don't talk
are the hardest. I remember the story, though. 
I know that I cannot demand things 
from you. Expectations take the substance 
out of an equation. 

Anyways, it tends to be most
days that we are apart, and I 
want you at my side. 

Then there comes a time 
towards evening when my mouth 
Nov 23

This is How I Feel

Isn't it obvious that I can't keep my eyes off of you? 
Or stop thinking about you? I'm up 
late with the tired sound of your voice. It's 
ringing through my ears. Something new. 

I'm worried it'll be gone when I wake up.

You know
I have an
awful poker
face.

It's just, you make me feel. 
         So full.
And bright. You make me bright.
All I do is smile.

God, you have such a hold
on me. My attempts to be calm
are embarrasing for the both of us. 

Which 
is a bit unfair. 

But I really don't mind
as long as you're here. With me. It's
already been so long. Just stay.
 
Nov 21

Poem No. 78 of Many

Not the days when birds come back - 
these are the days when cardinals come to life. 
I never notice them in summer. 
It is only when the snow begins to fall 
that their bright red coloring appears at all. 

Perched on the fence,
waiting for the others to arrive
while plump snowflakes make their way to the ground.
They rather float than drop down,
don't they?

Inspired by "These are the days when birds come back" by Emily Dickinson (poem 78).

Nov 15

November existence

It’s November, and music and words have long become a refuge for me. They always held open arms for me, but now more so than ever. Every minute without music feels like I am being strangled. My violin has sprouted both a piano and a guitar.

If I don’t write, I explode. I need to describe in great detail the afternoon sun, and so many other things, or the world will crash and burn. I have read so many books this year, but it’s difficult to tell if I have learned much from them.

Pages