This is for you…

Forecast : apologetic rainbow

I remember now, the damn point of it all. 


It occurs to me in trickles, slow bursts of momentumand then a huge wave,

flooding me with realization at four-thirty.

It matters. The four-thirty part. 

The limbo between night and day.

Nothing magical happens at four-thirty.

It’s utterly unremarkable.

Except today.

Because today, one remarkable text flashes on my phone :you’re an amazing writer, you know that

I retrieve the words back into my lab for testing…

No matter how much I try to cool it, they won’t solidify.

I rearrange them, sit them on my tongue

I wait for them to change shape as the sun comes up.

But they remain. 

I’m unfamiliar with this formula, with equations that don’t equal zero.

As in, zero chances you’re ever gonna make it or create anything meaningful.

But now at four thirty…this curious anomaly.

The variable I didn’t consider. 

Was that the point didn’t have anything to do with me.

It’s a freedom of a kind.To erase myself off the chalkboard. 

It’s a burden too, carrying this for you. 

The words are yours as much as mine. 

You, you’ve been the point this whole time

A Timeless Tail – Pt. 2

When I am embittered by the ills that be 

I lick my paws, stretch my limbs 

Run across valley and hill

To see the sad girl watch. 

It is a day of endless pursuit 

On my way, I encounter delicious prey

But no such pleasures thrill me more

Than seeing the sad girl watch. 

It’s getting dark

The owl has come out of hiding 

And I worry I’m too late. 

Still I run. 

To see the sad girl watch

There she is!

A warm and lonely figure

Beneath the setting sun 

She sits with a simple grace

Oh what I’d give to taste 

The look of awe on her face

The wisdom in that gaze. 

It’s why I run here

Same time same place. 

We never speak 

She and I 

But ever so rarely 

She looks me in the eye

I’d like to think in understanding 

I’d like to think in careful smile

And then she’s gone

In a flash of curly hair. 

I’d like to think she waits for me. 

That when she is embittered by the ills that be 

She hikes across forest and field 

To see the pale fox run. 

A Timeless Tail


When I am embittered by the ills that be…

I fasten my boots, roll up my sleeves

And hike across forest and field

to see the pale fox run.

It is a day of endless journey,

Of vivid blues and deep greens

So beautiful they don’t seem real

But no such wonders delight me more

Than seeing the pale fox run.

It’s getting late

And shadows are gathering 

Some have faces and others growl

Still I wait. 

To see the pale fox run. 

There he is! 

A flash of silver and gold –

Beneath the setting sun. 

He hurtles across with devastating 

grace.

Oh what I’d give to taste 

The wind in his face. 

The freedom in his tail. 

It’s why I come here, 

Same time same place. 

We share no words, 

I and he. 

But ever so rarely

He looks back at me.  

I’d like to think in sympathy 

I’d like to think in invitation.

And then he disappears, 

A whisper of wind and tail. 

I’d like to think he returns for me.

That when he is embittered by the ills that be,

He runs across mountain and valley

To see the sad girl watch.

     

Happy Birthday, old friend…..

Connected

Have I ever held anything as gently as I am holding your gaze?

I feel its warmth across my face.

In our hands are steaming cups of tea

That for the life of me, I can’t seem to taste.

The pot could tip over and we’d hardly notice.

There are few words spoken aloud, the rest transmitted through the sound of our hearts pitter pattering in code:

do I have news to tell you!

you’ll never guess what happened

Girl, what are you up to

I’d forgotten what it felt like.

To reach across the table and find a hand, open and waiting.

To utter a thought and hear its echo reflected right back.

We are twelve again,

Unladylike laughter spilling over our lips

You still tug the truth from me with an unrelenting grip.

We are sweet and sixteen.

Our hands gesticulating wildly, smacking our hips.

We are young and hopeful, giddy in our naiveté.

At twenty, our battered feet are making their way to firm ground.

Over there in the distance, the sun is taking its final bow

But the day is no less brighter.

In our rickety chairs, we have drifted back and forth in time.

Lavishly detailed decorated tales of the past

Cautious reports of the present

Harried whispers of the future, looming ahead of us

This is where we run out of things to say

The spell is wearing off, and we’ll go our separate ways

Sometimes I fear we’re just playing pretend.

It’s true you are my friend

But a bigger truth looms ahead.

That we are no longer the vibrant colours of our youth

Every second we stay is tinged with grey

Almost as if to say, we are more monument than moment

Memory than reality

A perfect picture encased in frame

And on that note,

I can finally taste my tea:

Bittersweet

There’s still fight in me yet

When your scars have finally disappeared

And you start to somewhat resemble yourself again

Once you’ve picked up the shards of your dignity

And held it up to the light, weighed it in the palm of your hand and said This’ll do


What’s left of you? When you’ve survived the Big Thing that split you in two

I know you curled up in agony, I know it squeezed you empty

But here you are, an outlier of sorts

Spread out on the floor

With a curious kind of grace.



When you’ve gathered yourself again, from where you fled

What’s left to do?

Well…you get to choose.

Which sweater will I wear today, white or blue?

You get to care what you wear again.

You climb on the roof and admire the view.

You look up again. Not to know where you’re going but to see where you are.

It baffles you how many sunsets you’ve taken for granted.

You enjoy these simple pleasures.

You give up your search for the great treasure of ancient legend.

Instead you collect it in small measures

The feel of a shiny new coin between your fingers. Flowers on the brink of bloom.

The kindness of a friend.

You allow yourself to dream again.

You want, with furious longing.

Sure, you can’t claim that you live fiercely.

That you tip your head and drink the coolade.

But you live just the same,

Sipping slowly doesn’t alter the taste.

Listen. You can’t help that your heart beats or your lungs breathe, that your body heals itself sinew by sinew.

Life chose you.

And this is you, choosing life back.

Now here’s the catch:

Finding yourself is not the end,

Yours has just begun.

There are more victories to taste

and mountains to climb,

there is beauty to be found in unexpected places, love in expectant faces.

Songs to be sung and moments of regret.

Run along now, you little fiend

There’s still fight in you yet.

I feel most beautiful

when my hands are blistered and

splattered with ink from gripping the pen

too tight while working on a particularly passionate piece.

When I’m all out of ink, my phone makes a great substitute in a pinch

Upon questioning, I’d claim nothing compares to the weight of a notebook in my hands…

But honestly? It makes no difference to me.

And on that note I’m off…fingers flying across the keypad.

I demand, I question, I cry and pray

I play a six string quartet-

And then it’s over.

The contents of my heart

poured out in 14 meager lines.

Then comes the hard part:

Sharing it with you.

I fear you must tire of my endless chanting

“poetry, poetry, poetry”

Never singular, it echoes like a pulse.

There are moments you forget it’s there, your heartbeat,

And then suddenly, everything slows

And you are anatomy and blood vessel than soul.

I like the moments where I am creature more than being.

Where my hands are mere tools and my heart organ.

I’m less than thought, less than any grand illusions of importance.

This pleases me.

This, simple act of existing. This, wanting for nothing but eat and drink.

That if any minute now the glass cabinet should fall over me and I lose my sight, mobility in my limbs, my ability to write…

Still then, I am no less alive.

Till then, I’m imprisoned by this in perpetuity:

“poetry, poetry, poetry”

Unaccompanied

I wear lonely like a second skin

desperation, like a fragrance

My mind is in disarray

yearning for someone to talk to.

I mean, searching…it’s not a dignified desire

It’s downright feral and foaming at the mouth

It’s shuddering at the smallest chance you might say hi.

And talk about the weather. 

I’ve gazed at the sky all week, 

(just in case)

I’m hanging by the phone, awaiting the tone

Dear salesman, please sell me something

Don’t hang up just yet! I might actually be in need of a prosthetic leg.

Now…was it the right or the left? 

Dear old friend, please tell me something 

I gush all my secrets to the poems, and oh do they listen. They’ve heard it all, carried it all… 

Every. Last. Word. 

But chances of them talking back are pretty small. 

If you’re wondering why my inner ramblings are resembling those of an alcoholic writer who fell to his death from an unknown height, 

I’ve decided you don’t exist, dear reader. 

Every day I write and hope no one’s listening in on this private conversation between me myself and paper. 

Here I can ugly all I want, throw myself over the proverbial skyscraper…

Release the wretched air hovering about me like a blanket.

I’m afraid to open my mouth lest I reek of despair.

No one. No one likes the smell of fear.  

Maybe that’s why no one comes close 

Even though I shamelessly wait for them to appear. 

I know I should keep in better touch with my friends, it’s just… 

You know the saying “check on your friends, you never know what they’re going through”? 

My friends are the ones who say that. 

When people say they need a friend, they usually mean they need to share their pain. 

But I’m doing rather okay…and I think I finally figured out what I wanna do with my life, and Ireallyreallydolove to look at the sky-

I have about ten people to share my pain with and none my joy. 

I’m in no need of company…it’s connection I crave. 

To many I am sister, bestie, and we stand cheek to cheek…arms interlinked. 

But I don’t feel warm 

I don’t feel known

As far as companions go, 

all I have is hope. 

Fool Circle

Thus, the quest to “find myself” has been one grand celestial crank call (see: big joke) 

I was never lost. I’ve always known who I was and what I wanted.

The real issue at hand is and always was, accepting myself.

And so, like most stories go… Mine ends right back at the beginning. Back to the fetal position. Or maybe further than that. When I was a hulk of cells, or maybe further more. When the earth was without form.

The good ol’ days, where days lasted eternity and eternity a day. Sometimes when I pray, it all comes back to me.

There’s a yearning

Burning inside me

It seems I’m aging backwards

Trying to get back to that place

Where I was everything and nothing

all wrapped up in one

The end and the beginning

with no boundary line

I’m not fighting for my dreams

I’m fighting for what’s real

Greatness can’t be achieved

It can only be retrieved

It was a stormy December

When I remembered

That I was once complete

and at peace

My entire existence has been a

Relearning

a returning, revisiting

a relocation, recollection 

I lived before I lived

I danced before the beat

Now I have to lather, rinse

and repeat

I’ve been recalling the rhythm ever since.

Forecast : cloudy, threatening rain

After careful examination, I’ve determined that I have a heavy case of the human condition. The ugly thing that lay dormant in each of us, kept hidden under civilization and clothing. 

Right now it makes no effort to hide, peering at me with cruel intention. And it’s in this instance that I realize its face is my own. The imaginary line I made between beast and man is translucent. I find myself falling over it more often than I prefer.

It’s not what you want to hear, is it? That the only difference between yourself and the worst person alive is but a series of choices, a nudge…just the right amount of pressure.

I do not kill. I do not steal. But in me was such promise. The same promise held in every manner of beast, awakened or asleep. Was I fool enough to think myself better because I didn’t answer its call?

I did not kill. I did not steal. But I tensed, I ground my teeth. I very near howled at the moon.

How could I call myself good? How could I have ever thought myself true? 

I yearn to be good…I pray so endlessly. It’s in this stance, kneeling by my bedside, that I realize I am on all-fours. No longer man. 

Something more. Something more. 

The beast still calls my name. 

But I don’t answer to that anymore. 

There on the floor, where I kneel

Is the grand reveal. 

I’ll share it with you, just between us creatures 

It starts with someone named Jesus.

Forecast : a summer sky

I’m learning new ways to say I love you.

A warm plate of breakfast. 

Imperfect omelet on toast, slices of fresh avocado and bitter coffee served with shaky hands.

A head popping into the kitchen, asking “Do you need some help?”

A friend, sending me a song. This made me think of you. 

My mother, giving me an aspirin. 

When the bad voice in my head gets too loud, I carry these moments. Of love unspoken.

Of love too shy and broken

To shout

But still it stands, firm and true.

Learning new ways to say I love you.