6 of 52: Bonfire

The deep crackle of dried wood

set alight on a crisp,

apple cider and sweater day--

it is the heartbeat,

chasing you through cornfield mazes,

glimpses of your cold blue eyes

and dark hair stolen through

yellow paper stalks.

We catch each other and fall,

rolling through straw and changing leaves

as we tumble,

fabric in the spinning drum of Autumn.

5 of 52: Sunday Haiku

simple Sunday bright

coffee with cream and sugar

well warmed wooden floors

little cat dozes

sleepy sighs, snuggled nearby

keeping so cozy

wind blows, cars drive by

rhythm of the day begins

outside our window

time trickles slowly

to dishwasher lullabys

and we are at peace.

4 of 52: The Weight

I close my eyes, and I can see it --

the intangible scribble-scrabble

which like the dust enveloping Pig-Pen

floats in my head,

constantly in motion.

There is music behind it, too--

a cacophony of sound bites,

every moment I've tried to forget.

They repeat, and layer, and repeat,

syncopated by my regret.

3 of 52: Mac McGee's

Bright lights stretch down the street and people

push in and out of crowded doorways, shouting

their name to the hostess who turns them away;

booked for hours, simply no room.

Beer flows from the tap and people laugh,

bagpipes playing, reverb bouncing the sound

from ceiling beam to the wooden booth where we sit.

2 of 52: Reunion

From all corners of the country

(north and south, east and west

coast to coast) in cars,

on planes, we travel...

for just one busy weekend

of nostalgic summer leisure, safely ensconced

in small town USA, in high grown trees between

hayfields, in the rural Ohio countryside.

Ice cold beer in hand and plush green grass between our toes

each year one sweet weekend

of laughter, hugs, high fives...

a few days to cement the bonds again

before the season changes,

the leaves fall and the wind blows us a year further

from collegiate simplicity.

Fond memories recalled and new ones created

amongst smiling faces and open arms,

we play catch up and kickball between

lazy swims and afternoon naps--cherishing

the luxury of whispering across the room

to those so familiar outlines when the lights go out.

Reassured that the spark is still there, we lament failures,

losses--we celebrate small victories,

acknowledging dreams become reality and

the history which makes us who we are

with the friends who have become,

inextricably,

family.

1 of 52: City Girl

I remember the hours of playing

curb ball on misty afternoons

just after the rain fall;

black asphalt steaming from the

heat of the day and

apple juice, cool and sweet.

Water keeps dripping rhythms on

the tin drain pipe

as evening saunters in.

First new tidbits in a very, very long time.

Certainly the most and closest to poetry i've written in well over a year. Maybe more. Typing it so that it persists to remind me that I can still do it! We'll see if I end up putting them into something solid at some point.
---

There are a million almost missed moments
in each day with you.
I struggle to catch them before they drop,
scattered by the swinging hands of a constantly ticking clock.

I can almost remember when time moved slowly;
when I had the chance to overindulge in you,
drinking in every single second, each word and whisper,
spoiled by the notion that we would always have
the same luxury.

----

I push past the crowds on the train,
aching to make my escape.
Somedays I come home so laden with the
dampness of my tears,
even my soul feels waterlogged.

---

The crispy crunch of the leaves has already gone--
they've been windbeaten to the ground,
washed into puddles and piles.
They stick to my boots when I splash through
the puddles of the pot-holed parking lots.
Their colors scatter the gutters;
Jackson Pollack might've placed them there,
they spread, clump together on the canvas
of another urban autumn's collapse into winter.

In Ohio, the snow has already begun to fall on quiet barns and
resting horses;
here we are, four weeks from Christmas,
sheltering ourselves from yet another
fifty-three degree evening. Our umbrella guards us
against the gusts edging
in between the buildings.

Arido

Every night I try to dream
you into being...
into becoming
a home.
I imagine you warm
(green and fertile)--
desolate cracked earth
overwhelmed by
(moist, beautiful)
rains and growth
and for once becoming
WHOLE
--no longer
(perforated, displaced)
turbulent.
--no longer
(spilling, splashing)
spewing your
contents...
no longer so scattered
as I am.

I imagine
what if would be like
if I could touch you --
if somehow I could wrap
my arms around you
(give you comfort)
nurse you to health--
I wish I could whisper
to you your importance
(your worth).
I wish you could (share
my dreams) open your
arms
instead of being
so
clammed up.

(There is no room at the inn.)

I wish you didn't feel so
EMPTY.
I wake in the night with the pains of your
(gaping, vacant)
desire--
I wish that I could calm your
labored sobbing
(your quaking, your thrashing).

I am so sorry for my neglect.

Tranquillità/Turbolenza

(Something I've been meaning to post but haven't gotten around to it. Not in my normal style, but...I kinda like it.)

It’s the best night of sleep I’ll have for weeks until you come back again—if you come back again, when you come back again. Until then, I’ll snuggle closer into my bed just to fall asleep. I’ll align the pillows so that I can pretend that you will be there to brush the hair out of my face when I wake up again to face the day.

Around 2am I’ll wake up and realize that your hand is not on my back where it belongs and frantically run my hands down either side of the bed, looking for you. Pretending has gotten me nowhere. The bed is just as empty and I am just as alone.

I’ve been working so hard to convince myself that living without you will be easier than living with you. I sort out the pros and cons of it all and think to myself “tomorrow I can do this all without him”; but the absence of your face makes the days even longer and I find myself distracted every minute you aren't here.

You are the sweet-silent-surrender of my day; I let guard down and lean into your arms and all of the world disappears around you.

Pensa/Mattina

(Something new, because i've not actually posted any writing in awhile. Give me feedback, it's the time of the season for Exile submissions and i'm trying to put some things together.)

Pensa/Mattina

eyes open;
glancing from behind my hair
(we play peek-a-boo)
I see you smile as
Fingertips trace the
curving path to hips
and back again.

Your
grazing lips tickle
(it makes my heart giggle and)
I lie resting in the
friendly, familiar comfort
of your arms.

patches of soft pink skin peak
through half-hazard blankets
daylight breaks in between
broken window blinds, brushes over our groggy
limb entangled awakening.

It really is horrific.

Kari took the free ColorQuiz.com personality test! "Intense, vital, and animated, taking a delight in ..." Click here to read the rest of the results.

Senior Year.

I am aware that this isn't a poem, but I wanted some place to post these goals so that I could remind myself of them when I begin to lose track of myself.

Cut my hair short. Write 150 poems. Get a tattoo--one that doesn't matter to anyone but me. Take a road trip. Buy a car. Lose 40 pounds. Kiss in the rain. Start to be the change I wish to see in the world. Stretch my limits. Invest myself in the people I love. Buy myself a suit. Drive somewhere late at night with someone cool for no reason. Walk around Granville. Go to Swasey Observatory. See Canada. Take more photographs. Do yoga. Learn to love my body again. Make myself cool clothing. Bring my little cousins to my apartment to visit. Read for pleasure--at least one book a month. Draw everyday. See the sunrise more often. Watch the sunset with the people that I love. Go on a picnic. Find a teaching job. Sing Karaoke. Go hiking at Hocking Hills. Go camping. Find a teaching job. Remember that sleep is wasteful when there are good people to be with. Call my brother once a week. Learn to love the theatre again, rather than feeling obligated to it. Dance on my kitchen counter. Remember to thank the people that keep me sane. Buy myself flowers.

This is where it stands now. I think it's doable.

Here I go.

Less than.

The stars are bright
but tonight I find myself
feeling
less than stellar.

Maybe it's that I just cannot
peg the moment when I let things fall
so far
into disrepair.

I want the rain to hit hard
again, to wash over the mess that I am
and restore
the confidence I seem so lacking.

I can tell it's time for me to begin
rebuilding; maybe this time i'll make
something strong
enough to stand on it's own.

Magnetic Poetry

*I found this today while scrounging around on my computer for some unfinished pieces. I'd forgotten about it...but I think it's growing on me.

Magnetic Poetry

Sleeping with you in the safe warm night,
cool day rises every time.
It is never easy, you say
too alike, same mind
you will always have her, you will never be mine.

Ventana: An Exercise

The Window is white
It is taller than I am
When I hang curtains.
It sits across from my desk
Which sits under my bed
And when the sunrises it turns
Them both orange.
I can see anything through
The clear glass.

White fabric falls from
The top of my window it’s
Cotton and clean.
There is snow and rain
Sunshine, too, outside.
Broken into pictures by the glass panes.
Open and close the
Gateway into a new world
Everything is there.

No matter how cold the glass feels
From inside, outside of the window it is
Always spring.
In the late summer
The wind blows through mesh screen and
Smells of fresh cut grass.
It is safe behind the window when the wind howls
Or when the rain pounds—
Nothing can get through the glass.

I look and see my
reflection in it’s panes like
crystal clear water.

It’s always as open or as closed
As I want it to be.
The locks at the top
Can keep other people out
and keep me in.

(Drips)

Raindrops
.
.
.
.
on my forehead
down my nose
over my lips
soaking through brown hair,
pink t-shirt, blue jeans.
soaking through my winter hardened skin.

Mud mucks
Grass tickling my ankles
wet between my toes
Silky, soft and tender.

Sonnellino

gentle breeze whispers
sacred soft grasshopper lullabies
they drift in my window
making the curtains dance and the
shiny plastic blades of the window fan
spin lazily
green grass fresh and soft with dew
heated by the sun send soft sweet aromas
mixing with summer barbeque and
slightly coated with the memory of rain
water tastes electric on
warm summer days slight perspiration
rolling along the hairline
as naptime arrives and the world is refreshingly
at peace.

Sunday Afternoon

I.
Bed covered in blankets, sun pours in.
In the refrigerator for breakfast there are plums and milk.

II.
Couch covered in a blanket
baseball at 3, movie at 9.
for dinner, Hound Dog's pizza and wine.

III.
Lawns in the neighborhood watered by a sprinkler,
a lazy walk together, wearing caps in the sun.

Grasping Moonlight

(This one is exceptionally rough. Any suggestions/kind rejections are welcome.)

Grasping Moonlight

I would not trade one kiss from you
(not for a billion from anyone else)
no one could ever make me see stars
or feel the hundred different things I feel when your lips touch
mine again.

I wish I had something to hold you
(something more than time)
you are moonlight and
no matter how hard I try I feel you slipping away.

I can never put my finger on the specific
emotion
(that one I feel when I look into your eyes)
but I always seem to feel
like I am safe and home again.

You are a feeling
of contentment in my heart
(you are peace of mind)
and you are fantastic
just the way you are.
I will hold
your hand while I can.

When the sunsets in your eyes
(there are a thousand sunrises in your smile)
and the world fades away for just a few moments
I can be safe in your arms and
be me.

You are a wish
(a Pablo Neruda
poem) come true in my life
and you helped me feel and love
when I was afraid of both
and I will never forget
all you've done and
all you've meant.

Summertime Blues

I miss the barefoot
Bare-shoulder days,
The sun brushed mornings
Lazy hot afternoons,
Firefly nights;
Late night bar-b-que and
Al Green on the radio says
“Let’s Stay Together”.

Pink cheeks, nose,
Red lips dyed;
A Shirley Temple
Made by my Pop,
Extra cherries in
The bottom, a prize for finishing.

Watermelon seeds scattered
Rinds discarded on paper plates
Littlest children hiding in the bushes
From their parents;
Time for bed.

Drifiting up through the window
open mesh screen breezes
carry the laughter of the family
adults, caressing my sunspent body
to sleep.