sabbath

i play my best
at old, creaky
church pianos.

chipped keys
with hymnals
scattering old bulletins
and the faded, crumbling edges of pages
all around.

where i can be alone.

not really a performance,
unless the audience is one.
and i don't have to think anymore.

just playing,
old chords
i don't have to worry have been repeated
because they have
and that's the beauty of it all.

Page one

I feel hunched. And sticky.  But mostly unsure of how I feel.  I like that he has laugh lines.

The trees are beginning to change.  I'm using this stupid seminary pen connected to someone I don't really know.  The water moves.

He was engaged once.  We are all deeper than I realize.  The sky is so beautifully blue.  I ache.

Each time I feel I have a breakthrough, I must remember these things take more than days. Years.

I can feel the concrete up my spine.  When I looked for the cricket, I found a wandering, wriggling worm.

Slowly I am being pieced together.  Peace, calmly.  All for the lavender in the sky.  I'm gathering what is interesting, and only now I'm realizing its because I want you to see.

Credo

God is like the sound my shoes make when I am walking alone.
God is nothing like the overused words of grace and love,
unless to you they are as worn and comfortable as an old sweater.
God is a whispered 'good morning'
God is nearer than all of that, hidden in the wood of rafters
in the pulse I find in my wrist,
God is all that keeps me alive.

Persistence beyond measure.

meeting you

i can't decide
but maybe it was the cat
curled up in the crook of my knee
tucked away
under the blankets
and layers of sleep
that brought on such dreams
a repetitive story
that allowed for surprise
wandering from room to room
every time i saw you
i felt the blush of satisfaction
like the purr of a cat

here to there

knowing
the space between
two ears
is small enough
to contain just enough

or the expanse of sky
end-to-end rainbows
(large enough, they trick you into seeing
the curve of the horizon,
now we know the earth is round)

f-a-c-e
intervals

the dangerous moment
when distance
is bridged in a keystroke
the bit between heartbeats

space, spaces
all the same

just the bits between words, worlds
all the same

this is what you should know about me

i tried to look up why i walk on my toes
googled it
searched for something official like
"toe walking"
it's a real thing
i suppose
i did learn a new word,
idiopathic
it means,
you don't know why
something medically unexplainable
it just spontaneously exists
which took me back to where i started
and to something i already knew
that something
lurks in my family genes
and every so often we just rise up
i rise up
like i'm daring the world
to tell me i'm 5'2" instead of 5'4"

wishful thinking

sometimes
i look
at

     well-decorated homes
and feel

the same
as when
i watch
  sappy movies
  (stupid movies)

so
wistful

afoot

i used to be concerned

about my feet 

in the dirt and 

wear and tear

of the summer barefoot months

even then

i knew

princesses had feet

soft and delicate

to float amongst clouds

a sign of privilege

later, i longed 

for

a natural sole

toughened 

i wanted to be a boy

to run across pavement

crawl though imaginary jungles

of prickly weeds

maybe all i want now

is a new pair of heels

(still size six)

to prance about in

that i can kick off

to burrow my toes

in the mud

after rain

reaching the end of a book on a hot summer day

lingering at the edge
of a book haze

     my mind fogs over

like the humid
haze
that's been circling
for days, now

     i'm thirsty
     but the water is all around

to dip back
into the languid rush
of cool words
instead thunder calls
a sharp clap
to return to the world
without neat endings

 

to-do list

this summer,
i'm going to drink sweet tea
until my teeth hurt
and read library books
all day long
losing myself in worlds
not my own.
listen to albums
straight through,
one complete masterpiece.
(important things take time)
paint pictures of places i've been.
think.
write letters
to friends overseas
crafting sentences
that explain what it's like
to wait
to sit alone.

thin spaces

once,
the world
said
come closer

all the
worse
we
listened
and now
we can't
get back
out
again

so much
color
and
curiousity

stirling

we sat
one on each green step
on the door stoop
eating ice cream
scraping carmel off the sides
with small plastic spoons
facing cobbled streets
talking
about sunshine
basking
in the sensation
of simple pleasure

being awake to the world

after sunset, before dark

seasonally

the light lingers longer on the day

gracing us all with minutes

of dusk, and shadowy purples

we haven't seen since last year

walking,

i forget this

and my eyes keep widening

as if that can defeat the darkness

losing track of time

until the street lights

turn on with a buzz

as i pass underneath

friends i haven't seen in a while

and friends i just left

cross through my thoughts

not knowing how they see the spring

as a time of warmth

renewal

just wondering

my boots hit the ground

the heel wearing off

into frayed pieces of plastic

the idle confusion of thoughts

significant enough to keep myself company

yet not enough to distill

into a single, profound poem

petrichor

if i sit still enough
and wait for the silence to approach
i can find the silence isn't still at all
and welcoming it in
i hear ambitious bird calls
trumpeting, forceful and beautiful
and the tentative sound
of rain on leaves

education frustration

it was the same feeling
as before
that one time
i made my english teacher cry
because we weren't treating literature
with the proper respect
and i couldn't sit back
and not defend the beauty
of wilder
and emily webb

so today
i was horrified
as you sliced it open
watching the brutal dissection
red and raw underneath

mystic poetry doesn't need categories.

you were taking apart
something i could never put back together

skye

no sign of life
cold oversized hills
only betrayed by
occasional
boot prints

shades of mauve
shadowed
stalwart, faded trees

melted snows
gusting around
ruins worn and torn
roots and branches
steadily gaining

unaware
muddled
water
patiently carving out stone

here,
mornings come too late
and nights end too soon

on being friends and coming home

i've got so much meanness
and selfishness
and jealousy
it's crowding the air out of my lungs
and the space in my joints
that allows me to bend and stretch
i can't breathe

but to be true
i've got to let go
and realize that i'm okay

it's impossible to link souls
when i've left no space
and i can't let you overtake me either
because i'm still a home
i am a home
a place to sit and stay a while
the door is open to speak
but please
like in any good home
do not shout too much
leave your shoes at the door
i understand weariness
because that's the plague that makes me want to
shut up tight
and try to keep this all to myself

but it's a treasure to let you in
oh weary wanderer
to see what you see
the sights of another world
colors i don't understand
please forgive me
when i forget to pull out my best china
i can't reach it on the top shelf
but i'm getting there

walking home from church

the trees are damp and singing
twisted branches, conversations

i don't notice the rain anymore

the bits of lace flowers
dripping
puddles shiver

we must be cold under our scarves
unaware of the ground reaching up
and the sky curling down
whispers
fallow and gritty

days (incomplete)

morning:
we were all squinting
stretching out
it may have been too much sun

dusk:
presiding like kings and queens
conquering the small clearing
scrounged twigs ablaze

smoke in my eyes

and deep

widening into my lungs

cliffs, precarious

looking out for miles

it's empty

embers fading

it feels like home

night:

climbing back down

thankful i had you next to me

paths in daytime, treacherous 

night, absurd

eyes down to the pool of light ahead

listening for the echoes

after today

so aware of you

i could follow only the sound of your footsteps

your hum

dirt

it's late
and I'm feeling dirty

the kind that should multiply
cigarette stains
scattered across calloused hands
and coffee rings
hardened overnight

but I don't smoke
and my coffeepot has been broken
cheap
as it was

if anything
I've overindulged in m&ms
Pepsi products
and a lack of mobility

I'll just wait for something truly lavish

and I know I've read more books
I just can't remember
maybe it's because they were all smut

there's that one cobweb hanging
dangling from the corner
and I'm too lazy to get it

if I had a kitchen of my own
I'd make sure to put a bench
right down the side
with cushions
some kind of kitschy print
kitsch, kitchen, it makes sense
so I'd have another place to sleep
on nights like this

that one time
I slept on the bench
next to the cracked window
somewhat guiltily
air conditioning running high
but to breathe the grass wind
and watch the moon
captured so bright and incomplete