Tag Archives: poem

Santa Cruz

11013353_10204416520838491_457772781114533548_n

I think of biking around Santa Cruz and I think of you.
Wasted clouds on wasted days.
Do you say good morning to the Universe?
Do you let it kiss you as it pulls you out of bed?
Cherish those moments: the sunshine,
the cool breeze, the laughing gulls.
Cherish the freedom, the summertime, patience.

I hear wind chimes singing in the middle of the city
where they don’t belong
among the hustle and the honking
and I want to tell you about
how they bring me joy.
I want to never forget the way you kiss me.

I know everything in this life,
in this world,
in this small, full, slow, too quick existence
is temporary.
Every night the moon grows or fades,
and the sun will rise again.
But everything else,
it is here for us and me to appreciate now,
and not beyond it’s own significance in time.

I hate that I am such a damn pessimist.
Why can’t I just accept what is, and appreciate it, and not worry.

I will never be ready for the sun to set before the day wants to end.

I’m ready for the continuous awakening,
the continuous light,
the stillness, the peace,
the never ending comfort that keeps my heart beating.

Come with me to the ocean,
stand next to me
with your hand in mine
and your toes touching the sea
looking out at this great big world
that we would give anything to save.

Let the sea remind me to be hopeful,
that I alone am responsible for my happiness,
but that I can let you in too.
Let the sea remind me that it is okay to feel happy,
and it is also okay to be angsty and unsettled and restless.
That it is okay to feel and I should never apologize for that.
Let the Santa Cruz sea remind me that I must
appreciate the golden while I have it,
and strive to stay gold,
glowing like the sun hits the top of each breaking wave,
glowing like the too hot sand that burns the bottoms of your feet.

Advertisements
Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Poetry

I.
My soul,
my well-being,
should always come first.

II.
It can’t be my fault
if I didn’t do anything wrong. And I AM
good enough. I am better
than good enough for myself.
I am strong.
I am the perfect person for
my own story.

III.
The carcasses of Christmas trees.
The cold caress of falling snow.

IV.
I am tired of being strong,
not that I want to be weak.
I just want to be.

V.
For once I want to be weak
for once I want to be vulnerable
for once I want to just
feel it all
feel the universe
feel without being ashamed:
I want to be strong in my vulnerability.

VI.
Some days are a struggle. Some days
you don’t want to be strong, don’t want
to carry that weight on your shoulders,
some days you want to just let it all fall.
Some days,
you don’t want to force a smile,
don’t want to wear eyeliner
and pink lipstick
and rouge on your cheeks,
don’t want to pretend that everything is okay.
Some days are for pain,
for letting yourself feel hurt,
for crying.
These days make the golden days all that much brighter.
Some days,
life is messy
and that is okay.

VII.
I’m tired of
pretending everything is okay,
of being the perfect woman – or
trying – let me wear my bitch face,
let me wear my regular, contorted,
angry, disconcerted face
without you labeling it,
let me be mad and angry
like everyone deserves to be,
I’m tired of looking fabulous,
I’m tired of trying too damn hard,
I want to be allowed to
not look pretty all the time – or trying to –
I want to be ugly,
to be messy,
to be vulnerable,
I want to be able to lie on the floor
shivering and shuddering
as my tears pool by the sides of my face,
whimpering, screaming, punching walls,
and not be judged
because you have felt that way too.

VIII.
What am I doing with my life?

IX.
I am living.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Truer Words

Stay golden: be the golden threads that hold
this unravelling world together. Be bright,
don’t let the weary fade you. Stay young, remember
what it was like to be carefree, to play in the mud,
to stomp in the rain, to have first kisses.
Stay true, surround yourself with those who
you feel comfortable being your true self around.
Let the gold things stay, and linger.

Be the light: be that great force that carries on
strong through the night. Be inspirational.
Let lightning stream from your fingertips, come out
your eyelashes. Be the lantern that glows
when the campfire goes out. Brighten everything.
Be the continual light for the world’s
rolled up American Spirit.

Be the crazy: feel discontened, feel abnormal,
feel everything, feel overwhelmed, feel anxiety,
feel belonging, cherish being the belonged,
feel hungry, feel passion, feel concerned,
feel curious, feel wanting more.

I am always chasing sunsets, but it is okay,
they are my sunsets. They were made for me.

I am alone, but it is okay, it is my alone.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Birth in Existential Anxiety

Maybe I was born with existentialism in my blood stream
maybe I was born to die,
we were all born to die.
I have existential crises as I grocery
shop. I have existential crises with Harris Teeter grocery bags
in my hands
walking home with bread and milk.
I have existential crises as I walk by sleeping bums on wet
park benches as I stare out across
a bleak city
with bleak desires and more concern
for politics and war than meaning and life,
is this all there is. Is there meaning
in everything you do. Is this all
there will ever be
are you happy with your choices
your eyelashes
your patterns of sleep.
Quiet the world is.
Are the sounds of the city
the speeding rubber the blinking lights
is it skeletons shaking their brittle bones
are these dinosaur cranes meant to be our gateway
to heaven
are these sandy underground parties meant to be our hallway
to hell.
So uneasy.
So unsettled.
Was I born to become anything.
Does my cat have more meaning then me.
Does talking to my cat make me crazy,
Cassady where is the meaning in your life,
are you happy, am I crazy (yes) (aren’t we all),
should I ramble on to a therapist because I have no friends,
anxiety makes your internal emotions
the ones that reside in your organs
implode.
Should I move to the sea.
What if I was the sea
would I still ebb and flow, would I have meaning.
Was I born to become anything.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

The ballet

Stuck in a downward circle like
a dancing, dying cockroach or
a spoon stuck in a garbage disposal.
Stuck in this excitement and hip
hopping around all the living that
has yet to happen. Spend the next
day slugging back black Costco brand
coffee, batting eyes, resting my
face on greasy hands and
waiting to be more awake.
So I can live.

If I had my own business
cards they would read Professional
Sleepwalker, they would be black
with white ink
and I would hand them out to
all the other zombies
and ghouls that walk
with me wherever I go
among the mist
among the tall thin trees
where we play hide and seek
with our souls.

Why do cockroaches run
from the light
why can’t I stop thinking about you
why won’t we get an exterminator
to make it all stop.
I need a soul exterminator to make
all the bad things stop.
Could I make a cockroach
ballet and dress them all
up in ivory and pink dresses
and make them dance,
charge admission,
and be one of those weird
and abnormal sideshows
next to the main tent
with the elephants and lions
and crazy haired men.

Tagged , , , ,

Christmas Insomnia

Living on bright pink Benadryls and melatonin
to try to make half dreams
seem more real to try to get through the lonely
distant too hot too cold nights glowing
with those fake plastic plug-in candles
with bulbs that get too hot
for Christmas. Keep throwing
the covers back
to stop the sweat keep pulling them over
legs to warm naked toes. No amount of blankets
will warm hearts not even
an amount comparable to the Princess and the Pea.
Afraid to close eyes for what
demons hide behind eyelids. Afraid
to open lips
to pray or cry out
for what evil sounds await on sour
tongues. Dreams that are not dreams
at all but terrible memories
from the VHS tapes of last week
the last too quick touch
and dreams that are not dreams
at all but cringeworthy situations
that play out
in the deepest depths of minds.
Where has the World put it’s
ancient Choose Your Own Adventure books
from the Long Beach Island
library on the boulevard
with crinkled pages
torn covers
and bookmarked endings: hearts don’t hurt
between pages.

Tagged , , , , , , ,

To accept

Realize that you made things the way they are because of how
frightening it can be to have dreams and to go after remarkable
dreams – to keep your dreams in an open jar at your bedside.

Feel disconnected. Feel like you’re crazy: just hold on. Hold on
to your mother, to your father, to the memories of your
grandmother with wrinkled frail hands – to hold on tightly.

Don’t put bravery to bed. Shake it, and wake it up. Be incredible,
be your own best masterpiece every single day. And be the best
damn street sweeper that you can be – to accept who you are.

Climb the mountains in your life, becuase when you stand at the
summit that feeling of insignificance, of catching your breathe,
of wonder and honor and fear – to accept who you are becoming.

Be okay when everything is not right, with loneliness, with distant
empty hope. Know that the longing strengthens and awakens you – to
accept the days and moments and breaths that you have been given.

To speak softly, to touch gently, to let go, and to live.

Tagged , , , , , , ,

Get on.

photo 2

For as long as the leaves have been scattered on the ground
I’ve felt alone,
but I’m never alone.
For as long as the days have been too short,
the sun’s been going to bed too early,
I’ve been disheartened,
but I know my heart isn’t empty.

We’ve got the days,
we’ve got the moments,
the glimmers of pure joy,
the sparkling blinding bright sun low in the sky between the grace trees.
We are grateful beings.
We are just trying to get by,
like everyone else.

What if we were like the falling leaves,
what if every season when the chill comes into the air,
when late summer has kissed you goodbye softly on the cheek,
we turned colors, we aged, we turned gray, we wrinkled, and we fell to the ground.
What would our lives be like then, short and more definite.
How differently would we live, knowing the end of our days
was falling upon us soon.

We’ve got to move on
we’ve got to get on
we’ve got to live.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

Silence in the city

Silent reflection
silent meditation
but there’s no silence in the city,
only breathing sounds of life
that splinter in the silent
breaking of the calm.
Power tools and power trips,
constructions,
distraction,
breaking the silence.
Sirens, horns
whooshing cars,
radio conversations
humming rumbling monsters
drilling our minds,
disturb our silent
wishful awake dreams
in this unsettled
crackled
frightening place.
We must find peace within ourselves –
WE MUST –
or we’ll rot and decay our dreams
grow wasted and weary
and forgotten – 
don’t become the forgotten silence.

Tagged , , , , , ,

Awakening in my beginning –

Not enough breaths to tell the world how I feel,
not enough moments before the sun sets
and seeps down into the wrinkles of the bed
of the horizon sky
to go to sleep.
Not nearly enough pieces of paper
to write this letter
that needs to be written,
not nearly enough soft blades of grass
to comfort my fall.
When you speak,
I listen,
when you cry,
I cry out too.
Bring the curtain down over my eyes,
pack my memories in the trunk
at the foot of my bed,
put me to sleep. Tomorrow
is a new awakening.
I still haven’t met my beginning:
my beginning is now.

Tagged , , , , , ,
Advertisements
%d bloggers like this: