I Write on a Blanket of Snow

Pen

finds its way back

to the paper

back to my truth

in the hopes that

“mine”

can still be

“ours”

in times like this–

white capped mountains

filling with the sound

of my shadow,

a lost soul

radiance

spilling out into sunlight

even the mountain missed,

talking with my sister

I know that the tradition

will pass on

the human way,

of knowing

the snow will melt,

flow,

and fall again,

just like the edge of my pen,

longing for love.

January 27, 2015

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Stirrings…

myspokenheart

stirrings come from deep within
dwelling in my soul
creeping like mist, they
echo like the lone wolf’s cry
at the harvest moon

longings tugging at my heart
for silence and solitude
ocean waves lap the shores
branches sway in the wind
the eagle’s call drifts on morning air

deep dark blues
smokey greys
mossy greens
like thick fog
enveloping my brain

I hear the trees call
waters murmur
bird songs
city life is hard
and cold
and lonely

drowning in a sea of people
alone
surrounded by lives
yet never touched
time to reconnect
feel nature beneath my feet
breath clean air
explore forests of trees
not concrete jungles

stirrings come from deep within
longings tugging at my heart
deep dark blues
I hear the trees call
drowning in a sea of people.

http://cheyxlove.deviantart.com/art/Foggy-Ocean-216474994 http://cheyxlove.deviantart.com/art/Foggy-Ocean-216474994

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Reality

The truth is:

I am

You are

We are here

 

beings of imperfection

near flawless

in their beginnings,

middle and ends,

 

imitating any last licks

of life we can mop up

before becoming the next

number, name, picture.

 

Our eyes

dull our sight

but our understanding

is a mind–

 

a black on white

sea of looking away

at the reality that is mine,

for now.

 

July 3, 2014

Quiet

All of the

chatter

and the

noisiness

and the

nonsense

“Break out

of your shell”

thrown out,

all over the

world’s spotlight

but it would never

be on me–

and neither would I

want it to be

at age three

I excused myself to bed

whispered an 8pm “Goodnight”

to keep the peace.

Kindergarden:

I journeyed from playdate

to playdate

how many friends

does one girl need, anyway?

Seventh grade:

bus rides in silence,

listening

Ninth, high school cafeteria

eating with Caitlin and a motley crew

because “Who else would I be with?”

I wondered how I would

ever matter

if I kept staying in on the weekend

with a good book, or a pen

to scribble a poem or two

about loosing you–

an introverted, soft-skinned self

that all along,

was just me.

 

http://www.ted.com/talks/susan_cain_the_power_of_introverts?language=en

 

December 25, 2014

A Damaged Heart

A damaged heart is utterly prophetic,

isn’t it?

 

All of its piles of bandaging,

miles of weak needle and thread

rushing off into an oblivion

we do not yet know is just

the journey of our souls.

 

It is the clearest paradox:

with its burden, one can see the world

clearly, unbiasedly real

and yet the world would not exist

if not for our experiences, they are

synonyms, of course,

thrown on to our ragged bones

and go ahead– douse your heart

with as many tears as needed

for the time you cannot handle

being alone,

let alone broken.

 

May 4, 2014

Scenery

Flowers

Run through

My hair

Like water

Down a river

Passing the last elm

That’s 100 years old,

Or maybe two

I can see

The flowers

But they must not

Always be blooming–

My stem opens

And closes in viens,

Blood honey

Getting stuck

With the glucose

Of my heart

If only I were that elm,

And not just chasing

Scenery.

 

July 13, 2014