770 Lincoln Place

Before I had my own four walls

there were those who had theirs

and welcomed me in,

gave me a place to lay my head,

rest my heart.

I had no clue back then

what an extraordinary gift that was-

I took their kindness for granted

and disappeared without a trace

when my mind made the four walls close in on me

and left me wishing for death.

But when four walls become a home

and strangers become family

walking away is always temporary.

So like the prodigal son I returned,

arms open this time,

desperately trying to replace

the loss in my heart

with love.

And as soon as I was embraced

and welcomed back,

I regretted all the time I wasted

closing myself off to the support

I always wanted and needed

but didn’t know

how to ask for.

 

 

Advertisements

deathversary

I am inclined to say that it’s been four years

since I lost him but

the word “loss” no longer

feels appropriate

like it once did.

 

Now I understand

love is stronger than death

and since that’s the case, the fact remains

that I will never lose him.

He is still here- in my heart, in my memories,

in the early Fall breeze,

in his mother’s eyes and brother’s smile;

He’s all the runs I’ve gone on at sunrise and the

strength that allowed me to carry on-

he is my friend, he is my love, he is my sweets

he’s not an object I leave behind

when my thoughts are scattered.

 

Four years later

and there’s some perspective

on grief and all the life

left to live.

how to make a poet cry

there was a time when I woke with poetry

and went to bed with it,

a time when I walked the streets singing,

greeting birds and trees on my way

somewhere I didn’t have to be.

There was a time when I had time to waste.

When my biggest fear wasn’t failure

but unhappiness,

a time when I didn’t feel so overwhelmed by life’s daily responsibilities

which have come to feel like heavy shackles lately.

The biggest problem in being a poet these days is that when you’re looking for poetry in the daily

and don’t find it-

maybe because there was just so much to do (there always is),

you feel the burning question inside of you:

“what’s all of this for?”

and all the small victories and glories at the office

no longer hold any sense.

 

When the daily becomes the mundane

that’s the quickest way

to make a poet cry.

 

fragments of a moment

cross legged on the floor writing

as he reads a hardcover I brought him

music fills the space between us and

the scent of citrus permeates the air

today we have no schedule

if we wanted to we could take a nap

in the middle of the afternoon

and wake up without an alarm clock

shaking our dreams so callously

back to reality

if we wanted to we could build a fort and have popcorn and wine for dinner

and watch Netflix until our eyes overcame with sleep

but instead we are

here.

in the sweet comfort and mutual understanding and

respect for our needs.

I’ve been so exhausted I haven’t had energy

to pay lady inspiration a visit lately

and he knows this.

so he lays with a book in hand and I sprawl

all my pens and journals on the living room carpet

and kindly ask creativity

to join me for a writing date.

And up above I can almost see love smiling down on us proudly

vaguely remembering the days

we swore off

commitment

for good.

 

For Sundays

The humming of the refrigerator has become my favorite sound.

It’s Sunday and we’re up before the sun, laying side by side with our backs flat on the shaggy carpet in the living room. Blankets cover our bodies and I place a sleep mask over my eyes. He opts for his blue bandanna. We breathe deeply, our arms intertwined and hands clasped. I try to listen to every sound, but it is so early the rest of the world is still sleeping.  There’s just the humming of the refrigerator and the swooshing of our breaths filling the space around us. In and out. With my third eye I see flashes of light and a never ending dark night sky. And when the time comes to fully return to my senses and this body in this world,  I will see a sky colored in pink, purple, and orange, and he will still be wrapped up tight in a blanket and I will look back at him and wonder how it is that the sight of him can rival a sunrise.

I live for these little moments when I can feel so full and whole and safe.

For slow Sundays and sunrises and plans of forts while drinking coffee and making pancakes. For the every day magic and the humming of the refrigerator that keeps me believing life is worth living. Love is worth giving.

 

 

RIP to all the orgasms that could’ve been

There comes a time when a woman needs to bury her missed orgasms. Throw the bones of shame in the dirt. Once and for all.

It’s as if I’m just now learning to befriend my body. Telling the little girl inside me feeling pleasure isn’t a sin.

But feeling numb for years should be.

How much time was wasted in trying to achieve some holy state? When they taught me to pray they asked me to connect to a higher power, but tell me what is mightier than the universe between my legs?

I’m just now learning to explore. To confront my desires. To befriend them as well. I’m just now learning that there’s nothing wrong with my hands or anyone else’s bringing me pleasure if that’s what I want and was created for.

God is a woman.

So for God’s sake, just let her get off.

the everyday tragic

You lose people.

sometimes to death

and other times not.

You lose them in coffee shops

and through telephone wires

and sometimes

you even lose them in bed.

You lose people

before they even know it,

at times you can even lose them

in the most ordinary moments-

the walk to the store,

the deposit at the bank,

the shower you take before bed.

You lose people.

Some may even lose one every day.

But the ones worth keeping

will always find their way back to you

somehow.

You lose people.

But sometimes when you lose someone

you also find yourself.

Loss can be a win

if you let it.

You lose people

and other times,

people lose you.

and so it goes, round and round,

losing and winning

join forces

and in the end

the only thing that matters

is that you don’t ever

lose yourself.

 

wishful melancholic

A couple of years ago I had to reteach myself how to dream.

I should be grateful I realized I had forgotten.

But what to do of the dreams come true?

Is now the time to dream up some more?

I would say it’s almost a shame to be getting everything I wanted, but then again,

I’m the one living my dreams.

And it’s hard to be sad when you’re happy.

But isn’t it weird how easy it is to be sad about how happy you are?