There were thorns involved
and so with careful fingers 
the firm, deep purple berries
were pulled off stalks,
held in palms,
and eaten.

It reminded her of birds 
when they delicately land
on thorn bushes.
Tiny toes splayed,
balancing the sharp mountains
in between skin.

Blackberry picking was a slow, methodical process, one that could last hours
if let alone.  

And she was alone;
reaching with night-stained fingers, 
for another jewel 
draping towards the ground,
adding it to the collection of savored
things from summer afternoons.

Cool ponds,
tiny caterpillars,
dirty calloused feet. 

They were simple and achievable 
and are the things she remembers 
20 years from now. 

Blackberry picking 
in early August. 



 

Its funny, the rain has always been a happy sign for me. I never thought about the downsides, the floods, or the way it can ruin your hair or make up. I always thought about the rainbows and the flowers that would grow. Rain is the one thing that is constant no matter where in the world you are. See, sun can change in Ireland its a watery sun where as in the Middle East its a dry hot sun that lasers down on you. But rain. Rain stays the same it always falls from the sky, and its always in a water form. Rain hides our flaws. Or at least it lets us pretend they don’t exist. When rain falls it changes something suddenly you can smell the the grass and the air. It awakens everything, every little animal or insect awakens and does what it does in rain, running around to fulfil that task. Me, I always loved to be out in the rain. I used to ride my bike in circles until the rain stopped. Other times id put my headphones in, put my hood up and just walk.

It is sometimes that i realize how much 

I love him

Like when I am supposed to be 

Sleeping; 

But instead i am lying awake listening

To him bustle about 

The kitchen underneath 

Me

And i catch 

A small smile 

Tugging at me 

As he hums—

albeit off key—

a tune that i once sung to him. 

Or when i am in the car and 

I can feel his voice vibrating in

The leather seats as 

We swerve down the road. 

(his hands never were steady.) 

it comes to me when i embrace him, 

inhaling the smell of coffee beans and lost sleep lingering on his cotton shirt. 

It’s when i daydream of when i used to beg to ride on his shoulders, and when i cry silently when he seems lost in his own 

Hopelessness

Stress

Dedicated. 

 I had a necklace once,
a key that never opened anything.
 
A soft white heart string
tied around my neck.  
 
Then there was the ocean
and the sudden idea that keys belonged
more to it than to me.
 
The waves were waiting.
 
Stomach pressed to splintering boards
reaching for the small string on my neck,
twisting over damp hair,
slipping through silent fingers.
 
Now, even if there was a door to a long lost room
or a chest full of somebody else’s dreams
I will never open it.
 
And there is a piece of me sinking
to the bottom of that ocean,
a slice of my existence,
a reminder that somewhere out there,
I’m still waiting for a chance to float.
 

 

I'm a cryer. I'm just gonna get it out of the way. It's said that on average, women cry twice a month and men once a month, but I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that those numbers don't apply to me. I used to always think that in the seconds after something drastic happens, you have a choice; cry or hold it in. A few times, I surrendered to twin waterfalls on my face, and other times, I let a stone expression mask my inner feelings. It feels good to let loose sometimes, to just unleash pent-up emotions, some you may not even know you had. It's a way of deeply expressing yourself, putting clear visuals center stage and letting the waterworks take you down the river. Of course, it depends on the severity of the cause that will affect the level of reaction. Had a rough day? Shed a tear. Had a small fight? Hyperventilate. Was just at the wrong place at the wrong time? Suck it up! Had the worst day of your life and wish you could change what you did?

I reminded myself to smile as I greeted the older couple
as they slowly walked through the restaurant's main entrance,
one foot sluggishly following the other. 

The Mrs. led the way, spry in her white tracksuit
almost as white as her neat clipped hair. 
Her thin, fluorescent pink lips parted to reveal surprisingly white teeth
coming in close second to her blinding attire. 
They probably weren't hers
 but when you're old I think you should be able to do whatever you please. 

Her husband was close on her heels, just a few steps slower. 
His bushy eyebrows reminded me of twisted iron
that moved and jumped in reaction to the scenes before them. 
His tweed cap was slightly askew
and I felt a little squeeze of sympathy for the aging couple. 

"Would you prefer inside or outside?" I said dutifully, trying to think of the closest possible table I could get them to. 
The wife answered promptly,

I saw your eyes first.
You had a little bit of grey behind them.
Your eyebrows strung together,
And your forehead knit itself into a scarf.
I think it would be orange.

You said
“This is for me?”
As if you were surprised
That someone would take the
Time to make something for you.

...

I said “yes it’s for you (silly)”
Your scarf unraveled quite quickly.
You kinda bit your lip
Before you smiled.
It was a small smile.
It was only a tiny bit of light let
In
Through the blinds.