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.

Temporary Insanity

I was standing in the kitchen when it hit.

Four sleepless nights in.

There were dishes on every square inch of countertop

coats in our chairs

stacks of mail

baby toys

dog harnesses and leashes and toys

an unopened toaster in the center of the table

the recycling overflowing it’s box in the kitchen

the garbage overflowing its can in the entryway

I hadn’t showered

the coffee was gone

I was trying to pick up

but there was nowhere to put anything

I grabbed a Coronita from the fridge

I knew I needed a moment

a quiet moment

a cold, little beer

and everything would look possible again

but there was no opener.

I began to feel a little desperate

rifling through boxes I already knew the openers weren’t in

and wondering for the fiftieth time this week why we didn’t have a key rack yet.

There are openers on ALL of our key chains

yet I couldn’t find a single one.

But I need this little beer!!!!

I need a little moment,

to close my eyes and imagine a completed kitchen, I love

A pantry with shelves

a living room with furniture

just one moment of peace

if I don’t get it . . .

Inspiration struck,

sweet college years

and sweet, ugly counter top we plan to rip out

so I felt no guilt as I held the beer against it’s edge

and slammed the bottom of my fist into the cap

on a grin

as it flew off with a satisfying pop.

Disaster averted.
IMG_5942

 

The Evolution of Fire

I used to write with fire
basking in the golden glow
blazing across the page.

I slung words like flaming arrows
without regard.

They were powerful,
they were bold,
they burned . . .

And then one day,
sitting alone in the center
of a cold, radioactive flame,
willing cancer to ashes
I came to understand.

There is no pride in fiery destruction,
no lasting warmth in white-hot anger,
no vindication in always trying to prove oneself.

One of the lucky ones,
it’s been four years and
I’m still here to live and write.

But my words have changed with what I learned
and my life has changed with my words.

 

 

 

My Twenties

I was blazing bright
but couldn’t see it.
I was making big mistakes
and trying to fix them with bigger mistakes.
I was searching for pieces of myself
that were never lost.
I was desperate for things I had.
I was blind.

I was drinking and laughing
and dancing and loving and
thought I was figuring things out.
I was staying up so late
talking, talking, talking.
I thought I was listening but
I was deaf.

It was beautiful, exhausting,
dramatic, hilarious,
disappointing, shameful, fun,
and full
of lipstick, high heels,
horses, hurts, big earrings,
bigger hair, hopes, heartaches,
and a love for the ages!
And I was blind
I was deaf.
Always feeling,
rarely thinking . . .

And how would it be
to be like that again?
So wrapped up in what is felt,
what is happening can’t be discerned?

Impossible now
and that’s okay.

My thirties are for something else
I’ll, no doubt, understand
in my forties.

Lines

(Inspired by the art, pictured below) of a dear friend and incredible artist, find more of her artwork on Instagram–@ladyweintraub)

Lines over lines

I am made of mistakes

Every try, every fail

indelibly recorded.

While success,

somehow more temporary,

comes and goes with a smile.

If you could see underneath,

there are miles of

lines over lines

I’ve drawn over my mistakes

inerasable.

Bleeding ink over the page

when my veins are empty

and even my breath is drawn dark with regret.

Fingers clenched–

my unsteady hand continues its path.

I cannot stop,

Or, I suppose I could, but

I won’t.

I am seeking

the perfect slope of cheek and chin

The right touch of stubbornness and

intelligence about the eyes,

wisdom and courage,

compassion and discipline . . .

Falling short, picking up, beginning again.

I am made of mistakes

Lines over lines over lines over lines . . .

photo(2)

 

Time

It’s time again–to wash, fold and put away another piece of the past.

It’s time again–to sit at the window with my coffee and think on what the future might hold.

It’s time again–to roll up my sleeves and tug at the threads of fate, disrupting the work of The Weavers.

It’s time again–to be unsure and carry forward anyway.

Ready or not

It’s time.

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

%d bloggers like this: