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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

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