Poems · writing

Metanoia

My mind speaks volumes

I won’t say a word

(Mama said she’d buy me a mockingbird)

Indentured to sickness

She won’t stand a chance

Bejeweled wings flutter a commonplace dance

(If that mockingbird don’t sing)

A value of equal to or less in stature than

Some thing left to squaller

I’ve muddled it, and,

(Mama said she’d buy me a diamond ring)

For too late I find, I’ve lost peace of mind,

And those thoughts are loud enough to ponder.

Poems · writing

A Message

I woke up one morning, seventeen, and a ghost had left a message for me. Ominous words written down in a digital hand, that I have since transcribed to paper. I’ve never been one to believe in visits from another realm, and indeed any “experiences” I’ve had since then have done nothing to recreate the feeling of utter violation and dread I felt that day, reading words that I knew were not mine.

Yet, something about it.

“Where was I half the time?”

Felt vaguely…familiar. The structure of the poem wasn’t my style, but the language seemed close to what I’d written in the past.

Had I somehow found a way to send a message to an earlier-version me? And why 3:29pm? Why hadn’t I noticed it that afternoon instead of the next morning?

I know how crazy this sounds, but I just can’t get it out of my head. Its been almost six years and I still think about it. Nothing I’ve found online can explain where it’s from, they’re not lyrics, not a quote, it’s like they conjured themselves into my phone for me to find and no one else.

I’m attaching a picture from when I wrote the words down in my notebook. I don’t like looking at them too long because they make me feel a little sick, but I’ll copy them below, too, in case my writing was a little shaky.

EDIT: I’m realizing that the original, below, has three opening lines instead of the two I had written down initially. Operator error? Or has it changed again? I need to look into this.


Where was I half the time?

Where was I half the time?

Where was I half the time?

All these colors

All these colors

Haunting my heart

Haunting my heart

Where is my mother?

Where is my father?

Where is my mother?

Poems · writing

Feverish

The orange blossoms on your sweet tooth yellow at me as I smile at you and I can’t gather these withering flowers with ugly dreams, nasty fiends, knocking at my door

What is it for?

Single melodies playing all around pretend to revel in its percussive sound

You know I’ll always be around

Until I’m not.

Who’s happy with their lot when all you are is what you’ve got

Distracted fingers memorize stop lights and bruises, alcoholic cruises melt into me and out of you

Liquid malnourishment

Find your tongue is spent working its way through the cash in my wallet

Blue rubber bands paperback hands jumping frogs and mildew incense

Innocence lost lost lost in every note

Feverish pursuit, bulbous trees taking root,

I’m too late.

Poems · Uncategorized

Rosemary, for Remembrance

Ophelia’s flowers have gone.

Broken, faded, her smile is twisted, she sings a mad bird’s song.

“Oh my love, oh my day, come and take my life away. I’ve waited under this wretched moon, and now the cold dark calls so soon.

I’ll go floating, my stern upended, flowers strewn and love suspended

under the willow tree I talked of so; now, sweet fawn, feels long ago.”

She glides across the empty stage, oblivious in her maddened haze

“Don’t you love to hear midnight laugh?”

Her own falls out twinkling, a sound as daft

For the midnight she sees, leering down in her dreams

Flying, humming, twirling around the room, she stops.

It might be over soon.

Gentle and modern, choked up and sodden

She’s broken her

(Chissit, chassit)

Brown woven basket

Petals scatter to the floor

And Ophelia doesn’t smile anymore.