Love Me, Leave Me

Please.

Love me lupine;
leave me howling at the moon,
chin up, eyes closed to the stars
that crowd the night sky.

Continue reading “Love Me, Leave Me”

In Pursuit

honeydew lips

They were all made of
orange-blossom scented skin
and eyes like the depths of the ocean
and honeydew lips,
with arms like wings
and a back like a pine trunk.

Told that they were wrong,
they stripped off that skin
and plucked out those eyes
and made up those lips.
They crossed those arms
and covered up their backs.

No one knew
the way they were before.
No one thought to ask.

Photo by Isaque Pereira from Pexels

A Little Love

Love for all

I want to take a Polaroid of every mole and freckle on my body,
the one on my nose and the ones just above each kneecap
and all the rest,
and lay them out on the carpet
to create a constellation
with a beige, shaggy carpet sky as a background,
just to admire the potential for beauty in my “flaws”
because every square inch of me is gorgeous
and I deserve to appreciate that.

I want to buy a picnic basket
and load it up with sandwiches and grapes
and a whole lot of other stereotypical stuff
but still leave room to pack all the snacks you like,
even though they might not go with the aesthetic
because the look of delight on your face
when you see those Oreos
is my aesthetic
and because you deserve to feel special.

I want to write love notes for strangers,
to leave them little reminders
that they are appreciated,
anonymous love notes hastily scrawled on pale yellow post it notes
and left to be found in the least obvious of places,
like under cafe tables and inside of porcelain vases at Target,
because those strangers are loved
by me and by the universe,
even if they don’t recognize it themselves.

Photo by Linda Eller-Shein from Pexels

Just a Walk

through a field

Oh, how the grasses dance,
tickling the legs of those
who pass by on the trail
that scars its way through
the middle of the field.

Oh, how the swallows swoop,
plummeting from up high
and flapping their wings to rise again
into the azure sky
decorated with cottony clouds.

Oh, how the insects hum,
filling the air with their sounds
that hang, just as thick as the humidity,
and allow all to know of their presence
right there, right here, right now.

Photo by Artur Roman from Pexels

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

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!

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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