My Words Might Fail

One day, when the moon is in the sky, I will reach out to touch it. I might hope for an embrace that it cannot reciprocate. I might stumble in its light. I might weep. I might struggle to move that insurmountable rock. I might try to replace it with other rock. I might lean against craggy walls, learning what every cliff face looks like from the bottom. I might hurt.

One day, when the sun is in the sky, I will tap my fingers on the dining table. The wood might maintain my prints. It might not. I might stare longingly out the window. My gaze might race to meet the horizon faster than my legs could ever run. I might lie down on the floor. I might rest. I might face my greatest fears. I’m not sure I yet know what those are.

One day, when the moon is in the sky, I might not be there to see it.


featured photo by Dids via Pexels

Smoke and Soot

a free verse poem

Smoke and soot.

A candle left to burn for too long.

A campfire just waiting to become cold.

Unused logs.

Waiting for another winter.

Beige and brown and chopped.

A recently demolished treehouse,

now a childhood memory.


Photo by Erik Mclean via Pexels

Lost in the Fire

used my spirit as kindling

I built a campfire over me, used my spirit as kindling,

added some branches,

layered log after log, log-cabin style,

lit it with a match.

The wood burnt,

things shifted after being singed to dark and lifeless hues.

More branches,

matter changed,

chemical reaction,

all the same.

I’m now trying to find the ashes of myself at the bottom.


Photo by takenbytablo from Pexels

Adrift

and unmoored

A sailboat adrift

far out

and not enough fuel for the motor

to ever power its way back to shore.

What I’m saying is you can call me unmoored.

Call me lost.

Call me unreachable

because when you call, I may not pick up the phone–

too far from civilization

for the towers to reach.

I’m busy trying to find a space to call my own.

Continue reading “Adrift”

L’Hiver de la tristesse

perhaps it is the way that life itself seems to disappear

I am a summertime poet;

I cannot wax lyrical about the bare branches

or frosty earth.

Perhaps it is the fact that the blood,

so warm as it rushes through my core

turns oh so frigid by the time it reaches my fingertips.

Continue reading “L’Hiver de la tristesse”