It’s been a while since I’ve posted (babbled incoherently for paragraphs on end, because that’s the beauty of the internet), but I’m back! (Obviously). One of the numerous reasons (excuses) I’ve been away is because I’ve been focusing on my poetry. My God, that sounded just as ostentatious as someone telling you they’ve taken time off to “develop their sound,” didn’t it? Well, ostentatious or not, it’s true. I’ve dropped my keyboard in favor of my pen and I haven’t regretted it for a second. Poetic venting amazingly is just as satisfying as blog venting.

Moving on.

In case you didn’t know–and I’m guessing unless you are an avid part of the library or writing scene or your teacher/professor forced you to write a haiku this month, you didn’t know–April is National Poetry Month. For a while, I’ve been hesitant about sharing any of my poetry over my blog for many reasons, but since it’s taken over my life for the last six months or so and in the spirit of National Poetry Month, I’ve decided to share some with you all.

I know poetry isn’t a lot of people’s thing, so if that includes you, feel free to ignore this post! Or if you don’t want to read on for fear my poetry will be so utterly atrocious you won’t be able to look me in the eyes again, so be it! For the rest of you, enjoy!

 

Halloween

I littered the floor with stars as I entered,

my costume trailing glitter and sequins

in my wake. We greeted each other as old friends,

but later, as a girl bobbed her bunny ears

to some nonexistent rhythm, my face leaned

against his, my mask on his mask. We pressed

closer on the couch, not quite fitting

between the cushions and the backrest, my awkward angles

with his. Later, he laid me on the mattress and I noticed

for the first time a window above his bed,

where the stars shone through.

 

I Placed in a Letter

I placed in a letter, five pages, front

and back, scrawled in five different shades

of ink. I filled it with the naivety of a melancholic

seventeen year old who lived

in a different world than you died from.

I watered tears along the satin

lining, and your willow-green chiffon dress.

 

But I couldn’t put in the memory of you

sitting in your hand-painted rocking chair,

sipping coffee out of the clouded porcelain

cup. Or the way you could give a full laugh

with just your eyes. I couldn’t set my love

in beside you, or my heartbreak. I wanted

to take the sunlight that colored my shoulders

through the stained glass and fill the casket

with it, so when the lid closed

you wouldn’t be in darkness.

 

 

My Grandmother’s 83^rd Birthday

Even when the candle flames nipped her nose,

she just watched the columns of fire sway

with a blank expression, and bleated

softly like a ewe looking for its mother.

The rest of the evening she stood by

the front door with her purse slung over

her shoulder and a photograph of her

parents in one hand, staring through

the frosted glass. Nobody could figure

out what she wanted when she shook

the picture and pointed outside, but

I think she was waiting for her parents

to show up, walk through the front door

and swing her in circles. To say, “happy

birthday little duckling,” and take her

away to whatever home they dwell in

now—the hills of heaven or just sweet,

faded memory. Wherever it is, I know

it smells of freshly cut hay and a baking

cherry chip birthday cake. I think it sounds

a lot like the wireless rustling out requests

of “unconditional surrender” from Japan,

and feels like a swelling hope that loved

ones will finally find their way back home.

 

 

We Don’t Know the Difference

We don’t know the difference between

cranes, herons, and egrets out there

in the wild riverbanks, the beaks of our

kayaks nudging a split in the surface.

We want to feel a part of chattering grasses

and willows bending down to rinse

their hair in the water. We want to reply

to the calling birds in clear, fluent tongues.

But we don’t even know the difference

between cranes, herons, and egrets.

And they, with their snaking necks

and blackberry eyes, can spot imposters

faster than the silver fish they stalk.

 

Death by Dementia

When you died nobody at the cemetery

seemed to be mourning, even as they clutched

their chests and begged the hard wind

to water their eyes. They all knew those tears

had showered and dried long before, when

you lost every form of life except the gentle struggle

of your heart beating on. Even the dew had dried

already in the morning sun’s comforting presence.

Even the crows wore blue in the reflecting light.

Caught in our grief, like a child holding

their mother’s hand, racing to keep up,

is the resurging peace of mind knowing

we never have to look into your eyes again

and see nothing but our own reflections.

 

 

 

 

The Intertwining of Toes

The intertwining of toes is more intimate

than the intertwining of fingers. Feet have

been where hands have not. Naked feet know

the cycling soils of the earth, its fallen

civilizations and ancient secrets. They press

side by side, against new spring grass.

They bear the pain of rusted nails and thawed gravel

left after the shrinking snow. When our heels, arches,

and toes meet, they whisper to each other

their calloused journeys and where

they hope to go from here.

 

 

Holding Words In

Holding words in is like holding

your breath—uncomfortable, it churns

your stomach and burns your lungs.

 

You pull the sheets in tighter

around your body to reign them in.

You pull him closer to soothe their ache.

 

But they long to be released and will

keep fighting until you purge them

 

at half past midnight

under a flickering lamp

with a pencil that is nothing

but a stub.

 

 

 

Keys to the Past

Two smooth wooden legs hold the Kimball piano

upright, making the instrument not technically

a Grand, but still grand in the eyes of the girl

who gently fingered its keys as a child. Middle C,

chipped in the corner like a child

with a missing tooth. Arched above

the keys is a sheet holder, blooming

with intricately engraved roses, usually hidden

by hymnals and Beethoven’s sonatas. Above

the carved garden rest tokens

of its previous owner; a backyard bird guide,

its pages torn and stained from forty years

of use, sits beside a rectangular magnifying glass—

necessary for reading the italic names of the bird species

and the hymnal lyrics—and a white coffee mug, all

remnants of a morning routine that has faded away.

 

A memory held in place by a distressed

wooden frame depicts the previous owner, a woman with soft

silver hair rocking a newborn in her chair. Behind

them sits the piano in its glory days—no chipped

tooth and its bench the same shining hue as its smallest

Another frame sits beside its twin

and holds a poem brimming with words of affection

and grief, written for the woman as she lay

in her hospital bed, by the baby she cradles.

 

That baby, now 18 years old, sits astride the bench now,

its black leather worn and greyed with age. She runs

her fingers over the splintered edge of the keyboard—

a wound received when moving the piano

to its current home in the small library. Gently,

the girl places pressure on a key, and a long, low,

mournful note rings out. The instrument is long since

out of tune, the only tune the girl ever knew. The strong

structure of maple, wires, peddles, and keys

will always sit as a melodic memory, not

technically a Grand, but a grand inheritance still.

 

 

Ice Fishing in Prior Lake

I could have stayed home sleeping

beneath the white down and refused

to stray where uninvited. Refused

to ride in a rust encrusted pick-up truck

over the low hills and shallow valleys

of snow-covered ice. I could have whispered

to myself, this is where I belong.

Then would the small kitchen, clouded

with its hot steam and cinnamon perfume,

make more sense to me when I awoke?

Would I regret not stepping through the narrow

doorway, into the frigid air of the fish house?

Would it be worth being blind

to the glares, and deaf to aren’t you dressed too fancy

to be fishing addressed toward my father’s red flannel shirt

draping my shoulders and the torn jeans above my boots.

I wondered.

But I went anyway.

Now I crouch in the corner of the red paneled shack,

staring into the murky depths

of brown-green water, the clear thread

of my fishing line indiscernible as it floats

down to the lake floor. Beside me the boys are laughing,

tearing jerky and gummy worms with their teeth,

barely glancing at their lines as they dare

each other to stick their heads in the water hole,

to take their chances in the portal’s

cold, quiet world.

What are you thinking, sleek-scaled sunny,

when you gaze up and see their distorted, wavering

faces through that carved window?

How do they appear through your glossy amber

eyes? Does the golden light

behind their shadowy frames look like a halo?

Do you even have time to wonder

before the sudden tug

wrenches your iridescent body

from silent water and I grasp

your slippery form in my fingers?

Do you see your wide eyes

reflected in my own, before I slip

the hook out, glance at the boys by the livewell,

and toss you back in the water?