On Forgiving the Dust in My Piano
On Forgiving the Dust in My Piano
Dear daughter of Earth,
I am not naked, rose-lipped, chapped and chaste in a poetic caste and silhouetted erotically before sunset and starlight like the Thinker gazing across foreseeable perpetuity.
I am not tears, saliva, aching heart, wishing fervent start to part the waves and take away the stinging and wringing and feeling and dramatic state of an old man singing hunchedly.
I am not a breath of air, glamour, fame and cameras or obscure references you get when I smile into camera obscura and my shadow dances across the ground simply, desperately.
I am not a dream, a reason, wretched ringing in ears or slinging beers and fierce acclaim to a name I can’t say but want anyway.
I am not purple, flowers in showers, glory and power or a lord to cower and glower at nor sweet summer clover, a lover, a wonder, I wander, I wonder mistakenly.
I am not stained, pained, painted or glorious, dramatic or furious, ancient, mysterious: a look in the past through a glass shows I’m nothing but sand from a small hand drifting away.
I am not dust, rust, lust; in God I trust I was never lesser nor better than the chipped paint echoes of a Hollywood neighborhood I linger in for the plot romantically.
I am no singer of songs or actress or poet or great Nobel laureate; I act in mirrors and foggy bus windows and graffiti smiles in store aisles and store away files of albums and memories longingly.
I am not tired until all the “I’m not”s and hasty U-turns on the highway catch up to me; groping and grasping for words under skirts I misheard and blurred and burnt and uninspired.
I watch the Canada geese migrate and mate in the sky overhead, but as to why I wish I knew the hate of resigned fate or emotion and notion but am sure we all die eventually.
And when my eye catches in storefront reflections it beckons forth a girl with my inflections but my flesh is deceiving: I’m grieving for the loss of a child who’s screaming but still here within me.
My blonde hair and blue eyes are denied catechisms for a wizened race, a dying face, a new age and I feel fake, hands tied no mistake, if I don’t scream I’ll break.
One day I’ll cry by roadsides, rivers, punch the snow and the broken scissors and shred my hair and tear the glaring neons then fall silent and quiet: it’s not right to make nothing but violence.
I claim to want a safe world for my unborn children, solutions, deactivated munitions, a safe haven, but I’m still young and drunk on beauty and promise and teenage oblivion and haven’t decided yet if I believe in heaven.
So why, you scream? Why care about ANYTHING if begging and lending a hand unplanned never stopped such a war or repositioned a planet? I don’t have the answers but I raise my hand when my name is called in class for I can’t sit quiet.
But I’ll answer as the deep bass punching through my grandmother’s next-door-neighbors’ walls and the ochre sunset on the sugarbush.
Then I’ll lift my head from the lake on a fall afternoon, the kind when the water is warmer than air, swimming without care of the depths, deep breaths, I dream of hope.
And I am NOT: I rise above shouting voices and noises as steam from a cup of tea in the snow, above self-image and anger and hating something new each day...
I will continue and live and laugh and dream and forgive and give hope not despite but for the chaos of it all and the tumbling ocean breath.
I am fifteen years old this New Year's Day: I’ll wait for snow and pray for it to stay this way, always.
I love being alive. I love the sun. I love the color yellow. I love fire and marshmallows. I love my world, I love you, I love dancing through the rain, I love dreaming, I love breathing, I love despite the pain, I love it all the same.
The Voice
January 2025
Finding the Light
Congratulations to our four winners of the Pop Up Color Contest and thank you to everyone who took time out in busy December to look for sources of light in the darkest month of the year. Each winning...
Nine Lives
If I had nine lives, I would spend the first one jumping from a tall mountain, the wind in my hair, and filling my lungs, the full feeling of freedom. After that, maybe I'd find peace and wouldn’t fea...
Look for the Pink
It's when we're driving along and it's the break of morning when the sun hasn't been awake for long enough to have warmed your still asleep body. Or it's when we're driving along and the sun's about ...
Snow Does Something Magical
Snow does something magical, I think; Creating a blank skate, can I start over now? It fuels first loves, the paths criss-crossing in a storm, a blizzard that lingers in the memories. People have been...
A Year in Vermont
January: Crisp cold days Early morning ski races I almost mowed the lawn last year Still very dark in the mornings February: It’s like January. March: My birthday The long stretch between February ...
7:53
7:53 My mother has creases under her eyes I’ve forgotten I contributed to, laugh lines around her lips I didn’t realize were from jokes I’d made. Her hair is darker now, her eyes a little smaller, and...
A Palmful of Metaphors
I’d like a palmful of metaphors, Ones to use every time I put a pen to a page, To plant in my heart And become submerged in my hope, My pride and my sadness, Sprouting ideas for me to translate Into w...
Survivor
I don't want to be a survivor, I don't want to be brave I don't want to be stronger, I don't want to be saved I don't want to be tested to see if I'll do it right I don't want your God to use me to fi...
Letter to the World
Dear World, I am teenager. I am on the cusp of life, a time when my entire life is ahead of me yet I am beginning to feel as if some parts of it are behind me. Now more than ever I am fielding questio...
Surrender
The screen stares back at me: 9:30 pm, an unfinished assignment, a deadline due. My weary chest heaves a heavy breath. My aching eyes blink away the darkness. Do I go to sleep and let my body be stil...
On Forgiving the Dust in My Piano
Dear daughter of Earth, I am not naked, rose-lipped, chapped and chaste in a poetic caste and silhouetted erotically before sunset and starlight like the Thinker gazing across foreseeable perpetuity. ...
Remembrance
Cracked pavement tells the story that time refuses to forget. And while tree roots weave their way underneath the ashen pavement, Time is dripping away from me. Or perhaps I am running from it. With ...
My Name/Your Name
cover my eyes so i can see you better my night shadow, cloaked in delicious mystery, your hand, forbidden fruit, holding mine under the waning light of a summer's day. i wish to drown with you, legs t...
Bookish Girl
A book lover who reads by flashlight and dreams of living in a cottage by the sea, and running a bookstore with tinted windows and plants spilling down shelves, and mismatched mugs in the hands of hap...
And the Message Said
I got a very old text message today. I remember when it was sent many yesterdays past. It dropped down from the top of my screen in a little box, but I didn’t tap it in time, and it slipped away. The...