Tag Archives: poetry

To the man I want to love

I give you my heart,
place it against your chest,
against your lips,
against your face,
and I ask you, and I’ll just ask you once,
to treat it with trust,
treat it with kindness,
handle it with grace:
my heart will not let you fall,
will not let you down,
will not let you tumble or drown,
it will give you no harm,
building strength upon strength,
as it holds you fast in it’s arms.

I give you my hands,
these hands,
my fingers, my toes,
my body becomes yours to steal,
to worship,
to respect:
let us take off our clothes,
our outer skin,
shed our past,
mistakes, heartbreaks,
let our vulnerability be not unknown,
let our closeness be not suspect.

I give you my lips,
they are yours,
take them,
turn them into something more,
turn them toward heaven,
turn them toward hell,
torture them and please them until all is well.

With my heart, my hands, my body,
my eyes,
my organs, my thoughts, my sorrow, my thighs,
comes love.

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The flowers you got me

The flowers you got me
that arrive a day late,
after Valentine’s Day,
may be turning brown,
withering, dying,
but my affection for you
is just starting to blossom
and will continue to grow.
Like the petals that fall
from the daisies,
I’m falling for you,
scared, slowly,
taking my time, to be sure –
but we’re never sure of anything
but the sun and the moon.
When I’m with you,
you feel like my sun
and my moon.
The freckles on your cheeks
and on your shoulders
are my daisies,
the blue in your eyes
is my sunshine sky.

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I wrote you a love poem

I may not always tell you how I feel
or say the words you want to hear
but my dear, I muster the courage
and the words
to tell you about the universe,
the half-lit moon,
the snow storm coming far too soon,
before we’ve stocked up with coffee and bread,
before the morning dawns it’s color red.
In bed, I tell you how I feel
with each grab and each caress,
with each kiss upon your tattooed chest.
I may not always have the words to tell you how I feel
or say what you want to hear,
but my dear, I want to tell you
how the sunshine reminds me of your freckled face,
how I struggle with being strong, with having grace,
how the smell of summer and sunshine
make me think of you,
and how you set off fireworks within my lungs.
There are no words in the dictionary
to describe
the feeling of being wrapped up in your arms,
those words just don’t exist,
but it feels better than a cup of tea
better than a hot shower
better than chocolate milk,
and if I could dance across the sky with you,
we’d two-step from Venus to Saturn and it’s many moons,
and I would sing a song to you
to tell you about the universe,
and the half-lit moon.

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But really…

Sometimes
when I feel so much and don’t know how to form it into thoughts,
so much I don’t know what to say,
so much I don’t know what to tell myself,
I read poetry.
I find the light and I find inspiration, I find meaning
in the passed great poets who have formed into words for me how to feel.

Bukowski wrote “We are here to laugh at the odds
and live our lives so well
that death
will tremble
to take us.”

Thanks for those words Bukowski.

May I laugh.
May death tremble.
May I tremble.
May death laugh at me.

What is your biggest fear in life?
What is it?
It’s not really an easy question to answer, is it?
We all have our cursory fears: heights, sky diving, black cats, spiders, clowns, ghosts.
Then we have our deeper fears: being mugged, raped, kidnapped, shot and murdered.
But what about those fears
that we will never say
that we never let touch our lips
that we hide so deep down they are in the bottoms of our shoes,
they are practically not even ours anymore, 
but those bottom of our shoes, never touch our lips fears are always there.
And I feel like its always going to be there. And that, that scares me.

So what is it? What is your bottom of your shoes, never touch your lips fear?

I’m not going to tell you what mine is,
because I don’t think I truly know.
Maybe one day, hopefully many many years from now
when I’m in my grave, because, no one ever pictures themselves actually dying, right?

I don’t picture myself in a terrible car crash dying of internal bleeding six years from now.
I don’t picture myself lying in a hospice bed when I’m 90, breathing out of one of those tubes stuck up my nose holding the hands of my children and my children’s children.
I don’t picture death that way – and let me be clear – death, is not what I fear. I will get to that.

But I picture death as having already died. I see myself, pale skin, closed eyes, lying in a silver coffin,
with my arms folded on top of my chest,
and God I hope that whoever dresses me for my burial
puts me in a really hot dress and heels.
And when I picture death, when I see that bright light shining around me,
because God, I hope there’s a God
because if there’s not then what’s all this trying for, god,
and when I picture death, I imagine
an opening of the curtains, a Ringling Brothers Circus, revealing of all the questions, all the decisions I ever or never made,

all the things I lost,
all the people I lost, displayed there, right in front of me.
In front of my cold dead face, in hot red dress and heels.
I imagine that is when I face my greatest fear, I didn’t have my first kiss until I was 16 years old. I was sure there was something wrong with me, but really, I don’t think there was.
I was just like all the other girls.
I didn’t have sex until I was 21. I was sure there was something wrong with me, but really, I don’t think there was.
I was just like all the other girls.
Now I’m 28 years old and I have never told a man that I love him. I’m sure there is something wrong with me, but really, I don’t think there is, I wrote this resolution to my self: start 2017 strong, start everyday strong. I’m 28 years old and I have never told a man that I love him. I’m sure there is something wrong with me, but really, I don’t think there is. I am not ashamed. I am not afraid. I am empowered inspired and strong. I have never told a man that I love him. Sometimes I am sure there is something wrong with me, but really, I am not like all the other girls. 


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Advice to my Self in the New Year:

Start 2017 strong.
Start every day strong.
Be yourself.
Be kind to yourself.
Be kind to others.
Stand up for yourself.
Say what you want to say.
Have courage.
Fight for what you want.
Be brave.
Be gentle.
Be real.
Stop being afraid and trust yourself.
You will be okay.
Let others in.
Wash the dishes.
Don’t apologize for feeling.
Be okay with being by yourself.
Create your own happiness.
Take care of yourself.
Learn new things.
Don’t let yourself down.
Create.
Write.
Read.
Prioritize the things that make you happy.
And above all, be your best self.
You can be the person you want to be.

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Lost cat

If I’m going to let you in
you better show up.
If I’m going to lower this guard
you better put down all your weapons.
If I’m going to expose my heart
you better be gentle.

This fear is like a little lost cat
who can’t find it’s way home,
who’s hungry and cold and miserable.
This anxiety is how all the kids
on the little league team feel
when the worst batter is up to bat
and they already have two outs
and the score is tied
and it’s the eight inning.
This impatience is like a sailing vessel
in the 19th century
before modern navigational technology
with its wanting mates scanning the horizon
desperately.

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My open hands

Everything around me is falling down,
sleepily,
and facing crisp death,
heads turned upward toward the moon,
toward the heavens,
to the universe,
but my broken pieces
have come back to life,
have made me whole. I am wide awake
watching death
with a smile.
I want to touch each delicate piece
of death with grace,
graze them with my fingertips
and my lips,
brush up against them with my chest.
See how death sparkles,
see how it shines,
but I still don’t want it,
I will still let it’s confetti pieces
fall toward the ground from my open hands.

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Letter to the Universe

Let me be all that I am:
stand me up on mountains
so that I can stand for myself,
teach me to scream, loud,
so I have something to say
and say it well. Show me staircase
after staircase
so I never get tired of climbing.
Give me days of rain so I fall in love
with the sun. Give me nights of loneliness
so that I appreciate love.
Let me feel heartache
because maybe hearts were meant to be broken.
Show me fear and death and sadness and brokenness,
strength and heaven and hell and wisdom.
Show me that I am invincible.
Show me that I am not invincible
because comic books aren’t real.
Cause me to bleed and cause me to heal.
Create in me a child of your reflection:
of the blue skies, the ragged sea, the wildflowers,
the mountain streams. Beat me up, turn me over,
make me give it everything I’ve got.
I know you do this because you have made me strong.
And I know you won’t give me anything I can’t take.
But sometimes I wish you would show
a little grace.

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345 West 15th Street

Heat lightning, my Nana’s
lullabies and her gentle snoring
in the other thin bed across the room,
gulls with names and stories that we gave,
like George, like Tom the ice cream man
who gave me a ride around the block
once in his ice cream truck,
who would give us the damaged ice cream
for free. Mistakes, lessons learned,
my first kiss that tasted far too salty,
so much so that I ran to the bathroom
to wash out my mouth. Picking up
buckets full of snails from the Bay,
feeding stale bread to the ducks,
swimming up and down the lagoon
training for a lifeguard job
I would never get, sending messages
in bottles no one would ever read.
Chocolate ice cream cones with sprinkles,
watermelon lips and sunburnt cheeks,
learning to ride a bicycle for the
first time and running head on
into my neighbor, sun bleached
hair and cigarettes.
But none of that is there anymore,
it was all washed away, covered in mold,
sold for so much less than it was worth.
And my grandmother lies at the bottom
of a hill in Philadelphia,
still waiting for her headstone.
I can’t hear her snores anymore.

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My own lion

I don’t wear jewelry.
Perhaps it’s because
it feels unnecessary
or like I’m flaunting something
that’s not my own good heart.
Perhaps I don’t like standing out.
Perhaps I’m scared.

Today I bought myself
a $78 dollar necklace.
It’s quite beautiful
and I do love the way it looks on me.
It makes me look thin
and fabulous,
two things I am not.

The necklace was meant
to be a reminder
to myself to be at peace,
to stand up,
to be first
to be selfish
to love.
It will be okay. I will be okay?

Today I typed into my
computer as it glowed in
the midnight air
“how to practice self love,”
like it’s a magic trick
I could teach myself overnight,
like some clown in some circus
that frightens little kids.
that runs from lions.
It doesn’t work that way.

I need to stop running from lions.
I need to be my own fucking lion.

“Rise, like lions after slumber…”

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