I’m sitting in our home void of noise.
I know what I need to do. I’m not doing it.
I did however figure out why I was pacing
when we first moved in. Searching, feeling
the walls and pausing in doorways. The
reasoning was revealed to me in two parts.
One of which I wasn’t surprised, but the other,
was a gift waiting to be opened, and when I
did, it came along hauntingly and grew
into itself before me; as though I pulled a string
from my throat and with it came the voice of
a story that merely needed to the right to express.
I see words
After I write them
They don’t look
While kayaking on the Connecticut River
in Sunderland, Massachusetts, I floated
nearly silently along with the current.
I was alone as I peered down into the water.
I could see the bottom of the river, silt and sand
with a few smooth rocks. It was as if the river held,
below its water line, an entire world and that
it wasn’t actually water. Instead it seemed to be
a type of gas and somehow I was there, on top,
nosily viewing an otherwise unseen world. It
was so stunningly beautiful that the moment
was etched into my memory, and soul, with love
and admiration to have witnessed this particular
portion of time where time itself paused to partake
in our viewership. I believe we both remember this.
How they unravel in my mind
Their taste when I speak them
The air about them adjusts and
gives way to possibilities; even the
world may change if given the
opportunity of understanding
instinctual knowledge. -She sat
outside at a small table for two.
Alone and smelling the aroma of
life, and still no one knows why
she broke her silent stare with a
smile she should never have given.
And with her, The world has changed.
I believe poetry means what it needs to mean to the reader. I remember reading poetry while in college and listening to the professor dissect the work. Often I would disagree. I think if a reader takes from a piece something of value, something that might even help internally, then the piece has accomplished a service in that moment for that reader. Even if what the reader took from the literature was not what the author intended. This is simply my opinion.
When someone reads a piece that I’ve written and expresses their understanding of that piece, I appreciate their expression. Even if had nothing to do with what I was thinking while writing it. It doesn’t matter. Not to me.
I’m curious, do any of you also think about this?
What lives within the epiphany of a mirror-
Deepening lines of the emotionally crippled,
carefully awakening these thoughts.
Shall the walls land nicely and cover; warmth
longs to remove the stains of the false eternal.
Cheers and thanks for hanging out.
I haven’t had anxiety lately,
but this little fuck won’t leave today.
pisses me off and makes me more annoyed
that I care, but isn’t that what it’s all about?
Caring too much about what we can’t carve.
This grey area of non-understanding! So it
stands on top of us and clenches our throats
and squeezes our chests; are you OK? I’m fine
walk with me and do you see how the ground moves?
When help feels like manipulation it’s time to reassess your surroundings.
Megan and Gavin are napping.
They are cuddled together.
It’s raining and the rain
doesn’t know about either of them sleeping, but I do.
I like watching the rain and knowing about them.
It’s fascinating. I’m the only one who knows both.
Welcome to our sleepy day.
When they wake, we’ll take my truck
and drive from our mountainside,
down into town, and have lunch at the
pub where the patrons
enjoy our little family.
Where’s a broken bubble go-
-I don’t fucking care
Actually, I do
I always have