poetry

Raindrops fall from clouds of gray.The fragile flowers grow.Teardrops seem all I can say.They speak of endless woe.Your fingers wipe my grief away.A seed of love you sow.A hardened heart reverts to clay.You mold my love just so.

I am vulnerability under scarred skin. Numbness crawling behind wine soaked lips. A cocoon of grief battling a chest full of hushed breaths, longing to escape the mod-podge of memories, that journal where I've been. Layer after layer they are sealed upon my person, encapsulating time in a vessel that has sailed one too many shores.

And when I stand in the receiving linelike Jackie Kennedywithout the pillbox hat,if Jackie were fat and had taken enough Klonopinto still an ox,and you w

She wasn__ broken.She was made up of a thousand tiny little cracks.She was always trying to keep herself glued together.But it was hard, she felt too much.No matter what she did, her emotions seeped through,sometimes in drips, other times in floods,She felt everything,the heaviness of the clouds right before rain,the rush of the subway cars as they left the station,the feeling of goodbye as she watched someone walk away,wondering if it was the last time she would see them,the feeling of a kiss lingering on her cheek for hours.She felt the loneliness of the sun as it hung in the sky,shedding light on the day,without companion.And she longed to give as much as the sun.If she could brighten someone__ day,bestow warmth were there was cold,make someone smile, give someone hope,then for a minute, an hour, maybe even a day,the cracks would fill with loveand the pain would become only a voice,reminding her that her pain was important.She knew how fragile life was, how hard,and how precious.She wanted to feel it all.

I am that I ama Goddess, a Godentitled to the deepest and most beautiful sensationsoffered by Heaven and EarthIn love I trustIn Wisdom I am revealed

Try to be thoughtful, don't make the poor man say it;see how human he is,he has children of his own,it is your job t

Heart, we will forget him!You and I, to-night!You may forget the warmth he gave,I will forget the light.When you have done, pray tell me,That I my thoughts may dim;Haste! lest while you__e lagging,I may remember him!

Mother (fragment)...You asked me if I would be sad when it happenedand I am sad. But the iris I moved from your housenow hold in the dusty dry fists of their rootsgreen knives and forks as if waiting for dinner,as if spring were a feast. I thank you for that.Were it not for the way you taught me to lookat the world, to see the life at play in everything, I would have to be lonely forever.

And maybe one winter it will get too cold and I__l forget about the summers we once shared. My family portrait mightfold in too, producing the same horrific effect as Jeremy__: that I, all along, had another sibling who eclipsed and became me__ prosperous sibling, an imposturous sibling, who outgrew a sense of time and place in which the three of us were everything to one another. Then only my blood in the sea could unfold and lead me back out of the origami.

Look up, greet sparks of fire with salted eyes,For he__ a burning atmospheric sigh:One blaze of liquid flame on midnight sky,Soft orbital decay, and last goodbye.

This ploughman dead in battle slept out of doorsMany a frozen night, and merrilyAnswered staid drinkers, good bedmen, and all bores:"At Mrs Greenland's Hawthorn Bush," said he,"I slept." None knew which bush. Above the town,Beyond `The Drover', a hundred spot the downIn Wiltshire. And where now at last he sleepsMore sound in France -that, too, he secret keeps.

There is the staircase,there is the sun.There is the kitchen,the plate with toast and strawberry jam,your subterfuge,your ordinary mirage.You stand red-handed.You want to wash yourself in earth, in rocks and grassWhat are you supposed to dowith all this loss?In the daylight we knowwhat's gone is gone,but at night it's different.Nothing gets finished,not dying, not mourning;the dead repeat themselves, like clumsy drunkslurching sideways through the doorswe open to them in sleep;these slurred guests, never entirely welcome,even those we have loved the most,especially those we have loved the most,returning from where we shoved themaway too quickly:from under the ground, from under the water,they clutch at us, they clutch at us,we won't let go.

Crossing the limit is not my styleMy footsteps meander less than a mileI travel the world perhaps in a minuteYet a dream, to me, is never infinite!

i want the moon tattooed on my wristsmy grandmother keeps asking me to pray, i don__ have the heart to tell her that mypoems are the only God i have left in memy mother keeps leaving without saying goodbyei wish she__ let me cut my hair in the 7th grade,maybe i__ know how to deal with loss by nowi told myself i__ stop kissing boys who didn__ know my namei said, i__ stop picking at my bones like broken decorations,i__ quit with the smoking and the drunken poems, and when i said things like __y bones are heavy_ i would only mean itas a good thingheavy bones can__ be broken,you can__ break heavy bones

My choices are rejections, since there is no other way,but what I reject is more numerous,denser, more demanding than before.A little poem, a sigh, at the cost of indescribable loss.

Severed and gone, so many years! And art thou still so dear to me, That throbbing heart and burning tears Can witness how I cling to thee?

No mark survives this place: you too will yieldto unmemory.

A few cold words on yonder stone, A corpse as cold as they can be -­ Vain words, and mouldering dust, alone -­ Can this be all that's left of thee? O, no! thy spirit lingers still Where'er thy sunny smile was seen: There's less of darkness, less of chill On earth, than if thou hadst not been.Thou breathest in my bosom yet, And dwellest in my beating heart; And, while I cannot quite forget, Thou, darling, canst not quite depart.