eureka

we float around like fish
like dandelion wishes
in the vast ocean of
time and experience

our immediate connection severs
and we float, alone, through life
and like fish we find schools of friends
and like wishes, we wait

we wait for the right time
the right place
the right moment
until

we realize there is no right time
or place
or moment
there’s only now

until there isn’t


imbalanced

dipped like candles
in black wax
sad wax
the kind of wax that will take over

but, maybe that’s not what wax is
maybe that’s not what it does
dipped in spores
black spores

until the mold covers your every inch
and you can’t bleach it off
you can’t bleach it dead
you just are

spores.


ubiquitous; but lost

so soft her skin,
like velvet or silk
and so does she,
too,
drip between my fingers
down on the floor,
beneath that,
too

she doesn’t puddle,
but only continues to slip
until the other side
she finds
she’s manifested
like a frozen mould

with aching wonder
her eyes do trace the outline
of the world around her
and her feet move
one in front of the other,
too


refuge.

part your lips
so that mine might fill the spaces
lay your worry in my hands
so I might carry your burdens for a while

your brow which you furrow and steady
might it soften and melt
under my soothing fingers
and beneath my softest kiss

the world, though it seems to hold to your shoulders
has pockets of ease and delight,
might I guide you there with twined hands
and sleepy wonder

as your eyes close and your face softens,
flow into me like a resting ocean after a storm,
let my arms hold you
whenever you need, as you need now


un-ti-tled

like moths and flames
the way we dance
on the air, around each other
like a small universe
and there is no knowing
who is the sun


closed doors can have cracks

my heart longs for poetry,
for bliss and longing
but my mouth,
that closed thing,
swallows what it can,
and tries to purge the rest

with every pump of blood
with every expansion of my lungs
my entire body craves,
with a madness,
the kind of love that drapes
like velvet, like the sun on a cold day

but my mind is selfish, and stubborn
it tells me all the things I know
and fools me into belief things that couldn’t be true
but still the heart tries, with each beat, with each skip

and it knows,
with absolute certainty,
that the mind can’t stop from feeling
and the mind can’t stop nor create walls
that the heart doesn’t want –
and such screaming, blinding love
will come


take me home

let me fall into the abyss
until finally I am awake
the stars could be my eyes
and the constellations could be the rest

planets could be my whole;
the sun a fiery, blazing heart,
neptune and venus my arms
uranus and saturn my legs

when the universe fills my lungs
the the gray of the people leaves me
I will be a shooting star
granting only what I please


Poison Ivy

my feet quietly pad on the floor
bare skin on cool ground,
cool tile
and asphalt
and concrete

something about it doesn’t feel
real
because it isn’t

the patches of grass outside
the small islands of real
are few and far between
and dying

if the earth would open wide
and swallow me up
I would want it to take all of me
and rise

and become new


a night of ends

The air was cool and crisp, as nights often are. She could feel the trees breathe with her, she could feel the creatures stir. This night was not meant for sleep, as nights often are.

The soft shawl around her danced with the winds movements, and she wrapped it ever so tighter around her. She breathed in the familiar scents of spices and herbs. When her eyes closed, she saw her home lively with music, with chatter, with family.

“The birds will carry my soul,” she whispered, “and when you hear their call, you will feel what you have done.”

She wrote letters in a tongue she knew the people would not understand, and she scrawled with beautiful calligraphy she had learned from her grandmother. The letters would keep her memories alive, as they would also keep her knowledge. There wasn’t enough time to teach all she could, especially with time stopping this night.

Lanterns swung above her, the lights dancing as her shawl did. The writing desk inside would be more comfortable and more easily able to record what she wanted, but she couldn’t bring herself to go inside. Not on this night, the night of ends.

As the minutes drew to the crux of the hour, she knew there would only be so many left. As more and more ticked by, the surrounding area seemed only to fester and writhe. Once she felt content with the words on the parchment, she folded and addressed them properly. Then she stored them away with a lock and a key and buried the box where only those who Knew would find it.

Spindly fingers, used to rapid and precise movement, unwound her long braid. The winds picked up and she became just a blur to those who would look on her – though no one was around to look on her.

Not yet.

But they would, soon enough.

With the voice of her mother, long since passed, she sang the lullaby most familiar to her; the one that slept in her bones, the one that hummed – always – in the back of her mind.

There were creases forged in her skin, and gray sprouting from her head. There was a softness and a shine in her eyes that were gifted from age. She had already been blessed with more time than that of those before her. More time than that of those among her. The earth knew her well by now, the fruits of her labor were well mature and often used. Her lips pressed tight.

“Good enough to use when you don’t know the knowledge of them.”

How often would people come to her, or take from her garden, in search of food or remedies? How often they would come for aid? And she would give, wouldn’t she? She would give all she could, she would help all she was able. Yet as the night grew older, spite grew in her chest. Anger in her belly.

By now the birds were loud, although none sang a love song. By now the winds were whipping, although there was no storm. Her tired eyes closed and she stood from her chair which jerked as though it didn’t want her departure. The waxing moon was plump and shone every so brightly. Her head rose to meet it and the light felt warm, although it couldn’t. The time was almost here.

It started as a whisper: “The birds will carry my soul and when you hear their call, you will feel what you have done.”

The creatures that had been uneased, an anxious feeling among them, suddenly called out. Shrieks and howls and cries sprawled across the earth around where she stood, no rain to fall in sorrow tonight, but thunder and lightning to voice their rage.

As the horses’ hooves could finally be heard in the near distance, she called louder,

“The birds will carry my soul and when you hear their call, you will feel what you have done!”

Somehow, the wails around her crescendoed into a swirling, frenzied tornado. The wind by now lashed so fiercely it shook the house behind her. The trees were threatening to be pulled from the ground, the long, thick roots barely enough to suture them in place.

The stampede of horses grew nearer and, as they did, so did those riding them. Shouts could barely be heard over the roars of infuriated nature.

She was now yelling, “birds will carry my soul and when you hear their call, you will feel what you have done!”

Her eyes opened and gazed toward the sky, her arms and hands reaching upward as if to invoke the power swirling in the atmosphere. Flashes of lightning and growls of thunder beckoned her to continue. They called on her to do what she must.

They were almost upon her now, their faces white with fear, their eyes red with hatred. Here was her end, and she continued to shout at them. She continued to curse them. She could see a few of them glance at each other with shaken trepidation, but those leading the mob gave stone to their backbones. In the light of the boiling night, she could see the rope. It was already prepared.

Like a wild horse, they strung it about her neck. Her fingers clawed at it as she continued to curse them. The night screamed with her. The night screamed for her.

Lobbed around a branch from this tree who knew her, the rope was pulled tightly. The people were telling her to stop; they were begging her to stop her curse. Those in front of her as she was being pulled back, being pulled higher, were silent. They were still. They looked on in horror at her face, screwed up in agony and outrage. Still, her mouth moved. Still, her voice persisted.

“Birds will carry my soul and when you hear their call, you will feel what you have done!”

What seemed to be an impossible amount of time passed before she was finally still. As her voice grew softer, so did the wind. When her heart finally stopped, so too did the thunder and lightning. Once the heat had subsided and the people grew quiet, a rain spurred the silence. Soft coos could be heard all around them, so gentle, so delicate. It was as though the earth and its inhabitants were mourning for her.

More than a few throats were thick with saliva. Balls formed at the back of their mouths and tears pricked what were once hellish eyes. They left in somber silence. The patter of rain and animals masked the sound of hooves and footsteps as the people left. As they drew farther and farther from the home and the woman, the coos only seemed to follow.

With the coos came tightened chests. With the coos came shame.


where the wild things are

We dance in the moonlight
with fireflies and the wind
and we sing with the wolves
with ghosts of the past
bare feet on the earth
grass between our toes
and I hold out my hand to you
children of the wilds