Poems · Stories · writing

Ripples in Time

Echoes fade in and out of consciousness, preserved only by what we cannot see. Beyond the cat-eyed rulers of intricate tombs, before the brick-makers learned to tame the rivers in that blazing heat.

You can see it there, in the crook of an arm, the gentle tilt of a neck. We’ve tamed it now, yes, but are we not savages to our children and theirs?

Whispers reverberate now, bouncing off the interior of our minds like a lilting tune sung by a sweet sparrow.

Scenes come into focus, here. A mother hums, a child laughs, a father sighs returning home at last. Burdened by nothing, the ancients receive a blessing envied by this modernity: an untouched world.

Grasses sing in the breeze, secrets passed along by orange blossoms to the willow trees. Rivers gurgle and boil, racing each other down hills and through ravines.

Mysteries swirl in the heavens, stars too bright and numerous to number, they sit and wonder, telling stories of all they see. Myths from a mythical existence, how can we question all that is within them?

Dusty fingerprints scatter through lifetimes, gently guiding, may we never lose the stars in our eyes.

[Jan. 17, 2018]


I really like finding old things, because it feels like someone else wrote them and I have to figure out my own thoughts again. This was due to a prompt/drabble that had something to do with Time and how it flows through people.

Poems · writing

Benign Morality

How can someone love a stunted bloom?

Same way the sun says goodnight to the moon,

Same way a dish can run away with a spoon

Differences are celebrated, but aren’t they often charged?

The moon was too shy to say hello to the sun,

And Dish often wondered whether it were Fork with which Spoon would rather run

Nuances in these “what if’s” are rather pointless, though the rate at which they’re indulged in have the potency to ruin a day, week, year.

The bloom will cry over her crooked stem, shed tears over her fallen petals but then,

What can she do?

All things grow, despite the rain,

The world finds a way to bounce back again

Every Saturday morning I see the moon in the sky, blushing sweetly at the sun as he waves her goodnight

Dish told Spoon every one of her fears, and last I heard they’ve been happy for years

The bloom is still stunted, and she smiles sadly, but last time I saw her, she looked a little taller, and her petals will come back gradually

Poems · writing

Sleepy Ducks

I always wonder what smaller animals think about.

Watching this little creature breathe,

Avian lungs contracting in and out.

It’s a calming procedure, and a good reminder that no one is free from this mechanical act

Keeping an eye on these small beings

Downy heads tucked beneath protective wings

It’s hard to be worried about the other things,

Though I know soon I must go back.

Poems · writing

Write My Poetry

Fear of failure I’m close to giving up

Untethered froM reality

The vowels they compound and we—

I’m lost when I’ve fallen into you

Authenticity,

Your electricity

You enrage and enlighten me

Frightening prospects and the sound of your name

Risking a cliche I’m too afraid to say it casts lightning

All the same.

Drunk on my inhibitions,

These admissions,

They’d never let me in.

My ticket was stamped for yesterday and there is no way to see the show, now.

Did I mention feeling exposed? Yes.

Surviving on instinct,

I’m sure I’m meant to act this way, why not?

Who can ever tell, anyway, between what’s real,

What is blocked.

Configurations.

I’ll wait for the circus to come to town

Write to me then, when the madness comes back around


I’ve been a little disjointed lately, and I’m sure this reflects that. Doesn’t that suck? When you feel like you’ve got a grip on yourself and your brain goes “hahahaha nope. You’ve gotta do it again.”? Oh well. It’s fiiiine! It’s fine. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

Poems · writing

End of Semester

Monday is lazy

Tuesday is coffee

Wednesday is long

Thursday is happy

Friday is boring

Saturday is early

And Sunday is denial of it all happening over and over again into eternity.


That last line is more than slightly dramatic. I’m just really feeling the school schedule cycle and I’d like some control back. Or at least a car so that my radius of escape can be more than a few miles