Jan 25

The twin that even I forgot about


Looking through old notebooks, I found a poem about the same metaphor, but with a different energy entirely. It's older, so obviously not my best work, but still a pleasant surprise I'd like to share.

Iron bars and burlap sacks,
thats what he described me as.
just metal and skin,
with a brain added in,
stoic, heroic, immune to the pin.

but the pin was a word and the word was a knife,
and the thick leather tore, letting loose all the lies.
what broke free and flew out
was just sorrow and clouds,
and a bright bleeding heart, full of frightening sounds.

a burlap sack of iron bars;
to the rest of the world, that's who we are.
just metal and leather,
never under the weather.
but deep down lies the heart, encircled in feathers.
Jan 19

January


All of me was wrong that day, 
when I woke up
in the late afternoon, with the blinds wide open.

The snow shined up,
The clouds glared down,
And the trees reached both ways into the searing emptiness,
grasping for even more nothing.

And the window was just
a blinding square 
on the wall of a box,
painted purple and black and blue.

The walls were swelling inwards,
crushed by the weight of the colorless sky, 
and my blue eyes bruised, ached, and turned away.
How can something glow so bright and be so dull?
when did blue become grey?

The whole world was blank, and I was barely a part of it.

Nov 27

Paper wings (broken dreams)

In the valley of the mind, a dream takes flight. It rides the wind, dipping and twisting on the path of a starling, and slows naught for the doubt that nips at its glowing heels. The moment it leaves the ground, the valley is its own. Fog swirls in playful currents, twisting under delicate paper wings as the dream smiles, delighted, and dares to break through the clouds into the sky above. As the chill of the mist washes over it, it blinks open clear eyes. You could look right into them and see nothing but stars; pinpricks, twinkling bright and sweet with promise, yet unfathomable distances away. 

All of a sudden, a new light breaks the horizon. Once hazy and muted, the skyline erupts in bronze and gold. 
The sun rises. 
Harsh. 
Hot. 

Nov 10

To swing and to shine

When I was young, 
I had a brightness
that I took with me everywhere I went.
I had a restless body, boundless energy,
and a wandering mind of dreams and schemes.
Everywhere I went, I loved with my head and with my heart,
and with every inch of myself that I could give, really.
And I was unafraid to pour it out to others, 
like sunlight shining through the gaps in my teeth
and resting in the crinkles and twinkles of my eyes.
I was warm and passionate in my joy,
hot as fire in my anger.
Even my sorrow was bigger than myself.

And as I grew up, I found I couldn’t hold them anymore.

Every emotion swelled and swung like an orchestra, 
so powerful that it rattled my teeth.
Shook them so hard I had to grit them together as the years went on.
It pounded on the inside of my chest,
like fists on the hide of a drum.
Nov 01

What I Write in The Dark

I want to break all the windows and let the sky crash in, pour myself over the broken shards and revel in the raging blue. Bleed thick and dark, like indigo honey, until I’m nothing but air and dust in the open skies. 

Let the rain come. Let it rage and snarl, sweep possessions off shelves and fill every crack and crevice with its pounding hurt. Let the wind guide it further, channel its rage into a howling torrent as it slams, relentless, against my door, my floor, my walls. The baseboards crack and the ceilings heave, bowing out as the sheer force of the water whips around in a frenzy. 

Its name is carnage. 

It is torn books, broken toys, shards of glass and snapped ukulele strings. 

Its name is anger. 

Quick and dark and powerful,
and 
so.

so.

so.




cold. 


Sep 11

True cold

Every winter, I have a tradition.
It doesn't happen on a specific day, but at some point in the earliest months, I make my way down to the beach and walk into Lake Champlain.
As I drift forward, the rocks roll together under my toes, unpredictable as always, but thankfully bare of their summer algae. I always thought it looked nice, worn like a sparse, fluttering coat in the currents of the sun-kissed shallows. Nice indeed, yet treacherously slippery. 
But today, there is none. The water isn’t warm, nor sun kissed.
It is cold enough to bite. An electric shock to the soles of my feet.
And still I walk on, letting it get used to me as I tread toward the horizon. 
Because I know that with time it will mellow, no longer nipping and sharp, but rather bumping my legs playfully around with its currents, lapping at my knees like an over-excited puppy. 
Sep 03

A limerick from the long trail

May 09

Enigma of the heart

The heart is such a simple thing.
it’s just an organ, carrying blood. 
It swells, it squeezes, and it performs its job as all parts of the body do. There is nothing magic or extraordinary...merely another function, nestled among so many others.

And logically, I know that the heart itself cannot feel. 
It bears no thoughts, 
expresses no emotions. 

Logically, I know that it cannot move and twist and flip, cannot duck and dive, cannot jackrabbit around in what I also know, logically, to not really be a cavern in my chest.

I know this. 
Of course I do.


But sometimes, when I hear a certain song...I still doubt.

Sometimes, as I slip headphones on before falling backwards into my bed, I still wonder.

May 03

A ghost in the closet

It’s been a year in quarantine,
A dry monotony.
That is, until I started hearing
Things I couldn’t see.

A ghost lives in my closet,
And whispers in the dark
Of every mundane memory
Where failure’s left its mark.

Another seethes and scuttles,
Drifting through my head,
Discarding inspirations
Until there’s nothing left.

I thought of them as spirits
‘Cause what else could they be?
That is, until I listened.
Now I fear they might be me.

For a ghost lives in my closet,
And another in my head,
But the voice is mine, and mine alone.

And that is what I dread.
 
Apr 15

Oh, to be mist

Oh, to be mist on a rainy day, 
to embrace the mountains and drift away,
to curl and float above a lake,
and revel in the rising sun’s wake

and oh, to sweep in silken waves
through untouched woods and cities paved,
to kiss the treetops, soaring high,
and wreath the shoulders of passersby

and oh, how sweet to simply be,
to set the scene for mystery,
to take a place, once sad and dull,
and make it seem more magical.

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