Childhood Summer

doors creak, opened by
sun-stickied fingers.

a puddle on the sidewalk
shines with a nostalgic glimmer.

——-

the taste of pavement and chalk
so hot an egg could fry.
the oppressive warmth
needs escaping.
doors creak, opened by
sun-stickied fingers.
the air-conditioning inside
smells like fresh water
and feels like an embrace
of ice prickles
leaving bodies punctuated
with goosebumps.

a hose in the backyard
could be a source of hydration
or a toy
while running barefooted
across the grass and clover
trying not to step
on any bees–
the danger only
adding to the fun.

those days pinned down
by sea salt headaches,
leaping from
shade to shade,
erroneously convinced
the best days lay
yet ahead.

Photo by JACK REDGATE from Pexels

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For Us to Seek

Below the home of brown

It is there for us to seek–
that’s what I thought when I pulled into the driveway
of your brown home.
It is there for us to seek.
I didn’t know what I was looking for,
but I knew we were after the same treasure,
whatever it was.
It was there for us to seek.
I honestly thought we might find it,
you and I.
But we sought and sought,
and it wasn’t there at all.
Because it turns out that it was lost from us
before we ever got the chance to hunt.

Photo by Filippo Peisino from Pexels


Inspired by a search and another search.

How I Write a Poem Step 3 coming soon!

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Hold Me

Please

Hold me
tighter than you’ve ever held anyone,
so hard that your arms fall asleep.
When that happens, wrap me tighter still.

Hold me
like our lives depend on it,
like our love depends on it,
like you’re going to miss me if I walk away.

Hold me
as though you’re afraid to lose me.
Hold me
like you mean it.

Please,
please
just
hold me.

Photo by Anna Kester from Pexels

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The World is Wide and Wild

The walker feels both known and unknown.

The world is wide and wild.
When traipsing through the trees,
echos of the beyond often filter
through the underbrush. 
The walker feels both known and unknown.

Birds call, squirrels rustle.
The canopies above let just enough light
trickle down to the ground level
where twigs may crack under bootsteps.
Humans are often seen in these woods
but only along this path.
That is just the way
things are now.

The walker matters little
to their surroundings.
This is how things should be.
Leave no trace, make no impact
except for on yourself.
The wild is meant for memories,
not imprints.

The walker’s mind is open.
They hear the noises.
They see the sights.
They think the questions:

Who am I? 
From where did I come? 
And, most importantly,
where would I like to go?

The forest answers gently.

Photo by Darius Krause from Pexels

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In Search

Of flames and dying sparks

When I set out to find answers,
it was like how the sun sets out of the sky–
firstly illuminating, then fading slow, slow, slow,
and finally plunging into darkness.

It’s not that the answers were unexpected–
in fact, quite the opposite.
As it turns out, seeking fire and brimstone
leads you to fire and brimstone.

I still have an ember from that inferno
held under the tightly woven treated threads
of fire-retardant fabric.
I miss seeing that ember, but the smothering is necessary.

The only way to gather new light
seems to be first extinguishing the old,
but never forgetting.
No, never forgetting.

There is nothing here for me now in the thick brush
where the light is tinged yellow by the leaves of the canopy above,
nothing there for me now in the desolate desert
where the vast sheet of stars overhead overwhelms.

I love you.
That doesn’t change anything.

Photo by marco allasio from Pexels

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Silent Silence

Silence is impossible to fully express in the written form. Here is my attempt:

Here for but a moment–
an inhale,
a comma,
a pause,
a break,
full stop.
.
.
.
Maybe it’s not a blank space.
After all, a musical rest is conveyed with a symbol–
a hat for a half-rest,
an upside-down hat for a whole.
Maybe it’s all about rest.
.
.
.
And maybe silence is hope.
It’s hope that my words may rest by you
in your quiet moments,
alone,
at peace.
Hope that my words offer their presence, not their voice.
.
.
.
I hope you find the silence you’re looking for.

Photo by Pavel Danilyuk from Pexels


C. D. Anders wrote this poem about silence and how difficult it is to write about. I wrote on one form of silence, the calm kind, but I would love to see other people take up his challenge of either capturing silence in words or writing on ideas that are difficult to put into words.

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On Touch

A sense of wonder

Fires may receive their fuel
Daisy petals may be counted
Sandcastles may be built and destroyed
Branches may break
Clay may transform to an urn
Thunderous chords may be played
Delicate chains may be repaired
Fortune may be uncovered
Children may be soothed
Inky pages may smear
Plants may be pruned
Knots may be tied
Candles may be snuffed out
Lemonade may be sweetened
Water may be cupped and flow through cracks in fingers
Chocolate may melt
Needles may make gorgeous embroidery
Paths may be blazed
Bones may be set
Goosebumps may appear and disappear

But there’s only so much that touch can do.

Photo by Jasmine Carter from Pexels

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Comfortable

I was made to swim

I do not find comfort in taking up space in the world,
but I was not made to be comfortable.
I was not made to ford rivers,
I was made to swim across their widest parts
and emerge dripping and shivering,
full of energy and tenacity,
ready and excited to do it again and again
and again.

Photo by Andrew Neel from Pexels

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Honeysuckle

Beautiful and sweet and innocent

I watched my mother pull the stem through the honeysuckle flower
and put the petals up to her lips to taste the sweetness.
She was always so cautious,
and as kids she taught us to be so careful.
My brother and I never would have deigned
to pick a flower off a random bush
and taste it.
Who knows what other passersby have done to those
saccharine beauties?
But in that moment, she was too caught up in the nostalgia of her childhood.
She threw caution to the wind
and tasted that luscious liquid,
remembering what it was like
to be youthful and free.

Image by bernswaelz from Pixabay

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