Poems · Stories · writing

Upended Voices

Really all I’d like to do right now is laugh.

Just laugh and laugh until I can’t remember what I was sad about anymore.

Sometimes I think if I laughed enough the whole sky could come down and I’d jump around in puddles of cloud, and the blue would be like an ocean that never boils any fish or bleaches any coral.

Once it was nighttime I’d be able to collect stars like little lightning bugs and put them in a jar, and I could swim through the inky universe and pretend I was just another galaxy floating by.

I would especially love to hang out with the moon, since she doesn’t give sunburns and always seems nice.

Anyway.

I hope it rains tomorrow.


Random prose?

Stories · writing

Long Titles

I am Gandalf,

Dear Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End of the green hills of the Shire at the end of the long lane as marked by the short stubby trees along the way, which often flower in the Spring, as long as the winter wasn’t too harsh, and the winds are breezy enough, since they carry pollen in order to bloom the trees that line the walkway leading to your door,

What’s up?

— Gandalf

P.S. I think you’d make a fantastic burglar


Wrote this as a means to keep myself awake in history class, and it made me laugh. Imagine the title he’ll have after his adventure!

Poems · writing

Anxiety

I am indifferent

I am closed off

I am jumping to conclusions

I am a wrinkled shirt at the bottom of the dryer

Forgotten in a frenzied morning filled with burnt coffee and runny eggs

I am a thunderclap sounding a second too late

I am a friendship bracelet frayed at the edges

I am a stomach filled with squirming snakes

I am a June night where you can’t get comfortable

No matter how many times pillows are flipped, sheep are counted, eyelids flutter. Still awake.

I am late acceptance letters

I am sleeping until noon

I am “all in your mind”

I am breaking into pieces as I shudder you apart

And as long as you let me, I will stay.

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.