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”The apartment is too humid
to grow most plants
anyway.
The aloe plant sits upon the counter,
its once plump, vibrantly green leaves
full of healing salve
now turned brown and flat
and crispy.
It’s not our fault that it died.
The cats ate the new growths
from the top
until they stopped growing.
We tried special water
thinking that the tap
may be causing these plant problems.
For months, the plants drank better
than us
or the dog
or the cats,
but to no avail.
The apartment is too humid
to grow most plants
anyway.
The dehumidifier does not
do much good.
The aloe plant still turned lifeless
and crunchy.
We tried everything.
So, now,
we’ll just stick
to the few plants
we already have–
the ones that beat the odds.
At this point,
we can’t handle
another disappointment.
Photo by Tara Winstead from Pexels
With today being the finale of National Poetry Month, I decided to put up another poem on this site. If you want to see a lot of the other poetry that I have been posting, you can check my Instagram (or you can just wait until my final round up post tomorrow). Most of the poems from this month have been super short, which is why they are found on Instagram rather than on here. I have a lot of feelings about how this month has gone, and I will write them out and post them on this blog some time during May. They deserve their own dedicated space.
Through thick and thin
We could walk along the shore,
feel the sand squish between our toes
as the waves lap at our ankles,
gazing out at the mid blue waters
and the light blue sky,
and you know that I’d be wearing a dress.
We could traipse amongst the flowers,
leaning down to sniff the sweet aroma
of the roses and the lilies
as we follow the grassy path
through the garden,
and you know that I’d be wearing a dress.
You could chase me through the corridors of a castle,
dodging the cool, stony walls
and laughing vibrantly the whole time.
You could catch me in your strong arms
and pull me into you,
and you know that I’d be wearing a dress.
You could stand at the end of the aisle
surrounded by loved ones
as organ music swells and the doors swing open.
I could take one step into the chapel,
and tears could start to well up in your eyes,
and you know that I’d be wearing a dress.
Photo by Daria Shevtsova from Pexels
A crimson carnation has its stem
threaded through the button
hole of a black jacket.
Hi guys!
We’re nearing the end of National Poetry Month, and I don’t know how I feel about that. To be fair, February and March were actually my crazy busy writing months because I wanted to have as much as possible prepared. Still, the act of finalizing pieces and posting them has been incredibly fulfilling, even if it has taken up a large portion of my not-so-abundant spare time in April so far.
Here are my posts from the past week:
Daisy Chains, Or Lackadaisicality (on this blog)
L’Hiver de la tristesse (on this blog)
I have my own chains
When I was just a little girl,
I asked my mother what would I be.
She responded that I would be easy going,
and so I tried to be easy going–
the chill, cool girl–
who laughs at her cares
and lets them slough off her consciousness
like water rolling off the back of a duck.
But, Mother, I am not naturally easy going.
I sought inspiration for this carefree state.
I read about fictional girls
and their days plucking stark white daisies
from the emerald ground,
delicately combining the stems to make chains
that are then further transforming them into crowns.
I have my own chains–
chains that bind,
chains that loose,
chains that set me free,
but mostly chains whose weight reminds me
of what I will never be.
I gather my own pile of daisies,
and place them in a circle around me–
a floral moat that I lack a drawbridge to cross.
I go through these flowers,
holding them one by one,
gazing at their pale, pure hue,
smelling their delicate odor,
and peeling their petals off,
saying, “It matters.”
“It matters not.”
“It matters.”
“It matters not.”
Photo by Hilary Halliwell from Pexels
On beauty and banality
Every poet seems to write on skies of marmalade,
about waters of azure and the texture of suede,
but I so rarely see these things in my day-to-day.
—
My life consists of grit and grime
of cheap laminate floors and of vinyl countertops.
Of cracked laptop screens
And weather-worn shoes—
An aesthetic with lightbulbs burnt out
and muddy puddles and unfolded laundry,
pots of dirt that once held plants,
cacti that just refuse to die,
windowless rooms,
bruises on skin that has not been licked by the sun in far too long.
There’s paint stains on the dining room table.
There’s patina on the silverware.
There’s faulty memories and mismatched meter and tongues that confuse themselves
and meanings that should never be spoken aloud.
Wounded egos.
Filth.
Muck.
Phlegm.
Imperfect families.
Half smiles.
Accidental laughter at problematic jokes.
Heads brimming full
of ideas that will never come to fruition,
poetic lines completely unnecessary to the meaning,
and chipped teeth repaired temporarily decades ago.
—
But there’s a beauty in banality, a hope in the mundane,
an elegance in all the things that we hold in disdain,
so excuse me if I speak of the ugly in a gilded frame.
Photo by Abdullah Ghatasheh from Pexels
What do I contain inside me?
Hi everyone!
The first full week of National Poetry Month is coming to a close, and, just like on Sunday of last week, I wanted to collect everything I posted from the past week in a single place. So here it all is! Enjoy!
Rewriting, Rewriting (on this blog)
This poem is a reminder to keep going
I write a version of the same poem everyday.
It pours from my lips in a whispered breath
and stays stagnant,
its letters etched upon the air.
This poem is a reminder to keep going,
to try–
to try something, anything.
Most days, my brain hopes to convince me
that staying is better,
that out there is scary,
that out there is sad,
that I will get lost if I dare
venture away from safety.
I only ever tell you
about the days when the poem wins,
the days when it drowns out the other voice,
and I stand up and face the world,
mighty in the morning’s victory.
But those aren’t the only days,
so I will keep rewriting, rewriting
until my poem is better
or until I’m better.
Photo by Lisa Fotios from Pexels
If you like this poem, here are some other similar poems:
Alone, I hear the wind whoosh past my ears–
a message from my surroundings.
Happy Easter, everyone!
I’m using this post as a way to share everything that I have written so far for NaPoWriMo as well as to specifically share my Easter poem, which first went up on my Instagram.
Raindrops on the Windshield (on this blog)
I hope you guys are all having a great April so far, and I will have a poem up tomorrow here on this blog!
Peace out!
Joy
I’ve always admired those artists,
those poets, those authors,
those painters and performers,
who suffer for their art.
I like to do this thing
where I pretend
that my surroundings are a metaphor
for my experiences.
This led me to a time
where I parked my car in my building’s lot
and just sat in the driver’s seat
for an hour
watching the glimmering raindrops lash at the windshield
and slowly glide down the glass
as the tempestuous gales
howled around me,
The Yellow Brick Ave 