There was an outline in the doorway, A ghost I imagine, With crooked teeth that smiled And eyes that glittered With the light of the moon. I could’ve, would’ve, should’ve Asked about the mail that day, But I didn’t.
It was a quilt of blues, Wrapped around, mascara-blotted And maybe we could have sat together With it around our shoulders, Cocoa in our hands, And the fire warming your face like it did then. Maybe.
The train came around midnight, And it nearly pummeled through Where we had sat, bathing in ash Just a few hours prior. I was still awake and I listened And I closed my eyes and hoped it would Come and rip this tent to shreds And you’d come and save me.
You and your broad chest and curly hair You make me smile so big, so stupidly With too many teeth and too much gum. And with that smile I fell asleep, dreaming, With the window wide open, Because maybe you’d notice if the moon Reflected off of my teeth.
It rains when there’s sun and even when there isn’t, there still are rainbows. I connect the dots on the windshield and twiddle my thumbs. I think about the things I could have said, should have said, but that’s all in the past now and frankly it’s not worth the price of vodka. If anything, bemoan the black clouds, but look: see the hail dance in the grass, and the wind pulling at your hair and feel how cold your toes are against the warm pavement. And when the hail and rain and wind cease and the blue sky comes back brighter than you remembered it, go out and see the rainbow.
I’ll step into the red waters; I’ll soak my feet in guiltless blood, Screaming, Hold, hold, hold, Hold me to what’s holy, and I’ll do the rest.
I’ll feel the sea salt prickle my toes, And look across the horizon to my home, Calling, Hold, hold, hold, Hold me to what’s holy, and I’ll do the rest.
I’ll breathe in the air of sand and sea, The air of hope and faith, Praying, Hold, hold, hold, Hold me to what’s holy, and I’ll do the rest.
I’ll take the hand of the young mother, And that of the old man, Whispering, Hold, hold, hold, Hold me to what’s holy, and I’ll do the rest.
I’ll take the first step, toward Zion, Toward Jerusalem, Praising, Hold, hold, hold, Hold me to what’s holy, and I’ll do the rest.
Three words from which I have hid, Within the forest’s thick shadows. Three words I have seen from the top Of the tallest lighthouse. Three words obscured, confounded Within the Washington rain. Three words of thanks, of resolve, Of love, Three words that I have never felt, Though I thought I did.
Three words were scribbled in a letter, A letter never sent. Three words sit in a box beneath my bed Gathering soft dust slowly, surely. Three words on the tip of my pen, On the point of my tongue. Three words reflected back in the window As the rain blocks all oblivion.
Three words: Can you guess? Three words: Do you see? Three words: Be with me? Three words: Feel the rain? Three words: Please remember me.
Every part of me wants to love you, hold you, keep you. Every part of me wants to snuggle further into your coat. Every part of me wants to make our lips blend together. Every part of me wants to feel your fingers twist around mine.
Every part of me but my heart.
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I’ve been really bad at updating lately. A lot has been going on that has warranted a lot of poetry, but in the heat of the moment, no poetry has been written. I’ve nearly digested all of it, so expect a flood of more poems soon as I can bring myself to wrap my hand around the pen and bring my emotions out into the open.
Snow blow, snow blow Blow the wind to and fro Snow blow, snow blow Silence the daffodils that begin to grow Snow blow, snow blow Springtime’s come too soon, you know Snow blow, snow blow And winter goes too slow Snow blow, snow blow Snow blow, snow blow
32 days left and at a standstill. My coffee mug gets me through, My frayed edges through the needle. Bittersweet and filled with shame, Fear, loathing, and surprisingly, A little bit of optimism behind the hair-pulling.
Emerging from an indigo closet Is a pair of new blue jeans That fit every curve. Denim dreams caress the hips And massage the muscular thighs, Neither baggy nor tight – The perfect pair. Little do the smooth blue fibers know, They will soon bear the tear and fray Of life’s many adventures. Soon they will stretch and relax With each wear, with each wash But now they fit, and that is enough.
Desert nights turn to desert days, The ice thaws. Desert scorpions come greet the sun As it peaks over the horizon Like a burnt tangerine. Nights I’ve spent, shivering When the dunes turn to blue Wide awake with you on my mind, As you sleep, Those nights are long past, The illuminating sun has come. I cannot hide in the night anymore; The scorpions must sting.
