Never have I wanted so much to die.
A heartbreaking echo from years past
whispered in my memories, of a time
the sea tempted you to wade in until
your troubles were swept away, and
you never came back.
I was trapped.
An inherently selfish act to pass on
the grief, the guilt, the heartache;
you’ll never be convinced we don’t care,
because that’s a lie too far, even for
this deceitful illness.
I always remember promising you
and I hope you never forget. Because
I’d give anything to have that chance to
tell you that there’s still hope. Still love.
Still value. Still a reason to carry on.
He wraps himself
like resilience and hustle,
but I have to wonder
if they bring comfort
to an empty life.
Spices explode across my tongue,
melding with the warm flush of alcohol…
A long exhale,
eyes at half mast,
head tilted in a relaxed lean.
And my brain is baffled
by the contradiction
of the icy chilled liquid
and the heat it generates.
perched on the power line,
twittering over news
that used to be secrets,
on the edge of gossip
Driving home, I saw someone
waiting for the green light to cross,
and although I couldn’t tell
if they were male or female
(maybe they weren’t),
it made me smile.
Although I wrote this poem in January, I think I’m about done revising it. For a tiny poem, it’s been through 11 drafts, and I think I’ve given up. It’s as good as it’s going to get. Feel free to make suggestions though!
My shoulder muscles tense,
instinctive reaction to a
I’m not okay.
My fight or flight response
a bone-deep warning to
avoid sudden movements.
I’ve got a few poems jotted down that need a second (or twelfth) look before they’re ready to share, but this one is unlikely to become any more than it is, so I’m just throwing it out there.
I was sitting in a rattan egg chair (I think they’re called egg chairs? Like a little cave of a chair, suspended from the ceiling? Anyway, moving on) on the porch/verandah/deck at my in-laws’ this afternoon, and as I half dozed in the sun, wondering if I should start a new book or if my husband and my mother-in-law were serious that work would only take ‘fifteen to twenty minutes’, my eyes were drawn to the patterns in the chair. And ta da, a poem was born. *shrugs* It’s not great, but I feel like there are a couple of people who followed me when I was posting poems every day and I’ve neglected them lately. This poem isn’t probably the best way to indulge them, but oh well. I do have a few more on the way, but I think they have potential to be stronger, so I’ll hold on to them for a little bit.
The rattan is woven around the sides
in such a way as to make
and the borders
are encircled with bands
that give a sense of