100 Old Poems Rewritten into 1

Walking through old words
I see the same ones
over and over and over
just rearranged
carefully scattered
and strung again
to avoid being caught
at being the same poem
I wrote a hundred times
if I wrote it even once.

It wasn’t very good.

As heavy and slow
as the number of times I wrote
“heavy” and “slow.”
“Beating hearts” and “blood in veins”
as tired as the word “tired” became.
“Wandering, disconnected, lost,
broken, seething, pooling, secrets, unspoken”
over and over and over
and yet
I fooled no one.

If I could write it again now
it would go like this:

I am afraid
I might be worthless.

 

Friday Randoms

When we finally arrived at our new life, I found the person I had packed up would not do at all.  Four boxes of clothing and only two pairs of Levi’s?
Who have I become?

I went back to open that dark door again,
but found only a small, bright window where it used to be.
And what should I make of that?

It’s been over a year and I just switched my focus forward from all I left behind.  Had I waited a moment longer, I might have fallen right over the edge of my life.

Motherhood broke my heart and I can’t keep anyone out anymore.

I’m going back to ugly places, where there are beautiful lines, poorly housed in shanty poems.  And when I get there, I’ll be kind to the girl who wrote all that falling down poetry.  Even if she’s a stranger now, I walked here in her shoes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This Year

This year is for my writing.

He understands and gave me books to read and time alone for Christmas.

I’m not sure why now, I just know that my thirties feel complicated but without all the fire and fear of my twenties.  It’s as if I could write it all again, only thicker this time, with more satisfaction and less splattering.

I kicked jealousy out of my bed for hogging all the covers and my toes are finally warm.  My writing is much improved without the distraction of freezing toes.

This old house invites me to sit while she holds us all safe within and let my mind wander out past the field stone walls.  She seems to understand so well, I am clearly not the first writer to live here.

My daydreams are clearer, my fingers slower, my desire steadier, and my thoughts more complete than they have ever been.

This year is for my writing.

 

 

Old Lines

These are some of my favorite one liners from years past that I’ve never written poems around.  Maybe now that I’ve got a bit more time to write, I’ll be able to pull a few poems together.  : )

 

Stop craning your electronic necks, there’s nothing to see here.

Look at life through the eyes of another
and you may see things as you haven’t seen them before
but you still can never see just what they see.

Some of the things experience teaches us aren’t true.

I wanted to wash my heart, hot/cold, heavy duty cycle.
I wanted to open my mind and let all the facts fall out.
I wanted to write, but I couldn’t even breathe.

I’d love to do this another way
but my eyes cling to their color-
I simply am what I am.

Happiness can only be made with what you have.

The box is too small.
If I don’t start thinking outside of it soon . . .

I put away my knitting early tonight.
No matter how many tidy rows I stitched
my thoughts wouldn’t follow suit.

If the answer were in this coffee cup, I would have found it twice by now.

The Night you Were Born

From the first contraction, I knew that night would be different.

I gathered my things, and left myself to meet you.

They said it could take a long time, but we both ignored them and focused on the distance between life and whatever comes before it that we all forget once we’ve left.

You were in between worlds, a place I never knew existed, yet somehow found with ease.

He couldn’t come along, but steadfast and silent, watched over us every step.

As the hours passed, I became the ocean–crashing waves rolling one into the next, and you, my little moon–pulling and pushing tides–guiding me to you, so I could guide you home.

There was a crescendo–a swelling of sound, a bending of space and time . . .

And then you were born–hot, purple, crying.

And a new part of me was born, too–fierce, tender, an unhealing wound.

We just held each other for the longest time because it was frightening and it hurt but we had made it together.

The rest of the day I wasn’t hungry, I couldn’t care about the aches or feel the exhaustion–I could only stare in awe of you.

And that, my little love, was how it went on the night you were born.  The very first of many wonderful, strange, and wild adventures to come.
a

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Roommates: Miss Baby

No doubt about it, things were getting tight. She stretched her arms and legs as far as she could, just to check again, and sure enough, the soft, seemingly flexible walls of her living space were decidedly less flexible than they had been the week before.  It was happening so slowly, she almost hadn’t noticed, but lately, it had become clear–this room, which had started out quite comfortable, was shrinking.

It was a desperate situation really.  She wasn’t exactly sure how she’d gotten here and therefore, wasn’t exactly sure how to go about going somewhere else . . . There were others nearby, but none she felt comfortable asking.  For some reason, they didn’t seem to like her.  They were always scooting out of her way, mumbling and grumbling.  She apologized often, but that didn’t seem to help anymore.  Another hint the room was shrinking, she couldn’t move a hand or foot these days without bumping into Bladder or Diaphram or some other random, grumpy neighbor.

Something soft brushed her toe, interrupting her thoughts, and she kicked out, “HIYA!” Then everything constricted suddenly, as it sometimes did.  She pressed out against the walls, hoping to get away from whatever it was, but there was nowhere to go . . . finally, she looked and realized it was just Bladder again.  “Oops, sorry!” She said, but only received a pained groan in response.  Sigh.  Typical.

One way or another, she was going to HAVE to find a way out of here . . .

Roommates

 

 

She was Born

She was born in the usual way–between a man and a woman.  There was blood, pain, and screaming. It was, as it always is, a brutal cleaving of soul from soul, flesh from flesh. Her father was a crime, her mother a child, and there was no one to catch her when, after years of slow, uncomfortable gestation, she finally fell into damp leaves on a darkened forest floor.

Her mother lays there still, not one minute past the memory.

She didn’t realize her birth was a death. She never grieved; how do you miss someone you never knew? But She felt the weight of grief all around her from the moment she was born in such a way that it was like gravity or some other universally accepted law of physics– binding her to earth, limiting her ability to move, and at the time, intensifying her need to dream.

 

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