NaPoWriMo Day 2

Prompt: Things I know to be true

I know that I spend far too much time

eyes tilted upward

that cars are the only reason I hate winter

that I’m happiest when I’m reading books.

I know that God is something I’m not able to understand right now

that I couldn’t survive a hurricane

that a good tube of lipstick can lift you out of a depression.

I know that you should never put a bra in the dryer

but that no one ever washes them by hand.

I know that my hands aren’t weathered enough

that my feet aren’t calloused enough

that I’ve stopped trying to fix either of those problems.

I’ve stopped trying to fix a lot of things.

I’ve stopped a lot lately.

I know that I haven’t been taking enough time to write poems

I haven’t stopped long enough to find them in the tree branches

and long walks home

in the curry bubbling

and showers-

there are a lot of poems that I should have stopped and wrote in the shower.

I know that I should stop dwelling on all the things I’ve

missed or

broken or

wrecked

since I stopped.

I know that I am probably not going to wash the dishes in a timely manner

that I’ll forgive myself anyway

that dishes mean so little at the end of the day.

NaPoWriMo2014 Day 1

Today marks the start of another National Poetry Writing Month. I'm going to try to knock out 30 poems in 30 days! Let's keep me accountable!

Day One Writing Prompt: Our Giant Prairie Sky

expanse

greying tye-dye clouds

the sky here is bigger than my memory.

there is nothing left to obstruct my view

and I look back,

where the sun shines in and out of today

I’m mesmerized by our giant prairie sky,

by the way it goes on and on and on longer

than I know how to look.

and soon the colours will come,

the soft orange spilling watercolour simple on the skyline

blue streaks matching child crafted crayon box sunbeams

I feel so claustrophobic with geographically erected walls

I like it better when I can see all the way around me.

Home is the feeling of bigness

of endless opening

of space and growing

ever moving skies.

June Poem A Day: Day 5

Yesterday, after letting them pump drugs I can hardly pronounce through veins they can hardly find, I felt tired. Those small alley-ways holding so many milligrams of so many things. I look at my hands; there are scars there, track marks initiated by fluids less than recreational. I look like a junky. And the way that I talk about emergency room visits, with ease and candor, doesn't really leave a stranger from thinking any differently about me. I'm not there for the drugs, well maybe a little bit; but not the fun ones. Not the ones able and willing to draw circles around the lobes of my ears, open my subconscious so much that I wouldn't even be able to see the track marks, the scars inside and out. What I am is chronically ill. No one would guess this in meeting me alone. I suffer from a sickness that can't be cured or seen. My doctor has given up on my health. So, every six to nine months you might run into me in the emergency room. I'll be in there for a migraine so severe that I'm unable to hold down waters; tears will stream down my face. I will wear a mask of stubborn determination, to convince myself that this pain is merely temporary; not, a figment of my grey matter's neurotic imagining.

June Poem A Day: Day 4

My body is covered by

bruises shaped like your jaw bone

and I’m not accusing you of any kind of abuse

these purple/brown line drawings are consensual.

I have always subscribed a love for the

dichotomy of hard and soft.

We were each other’s first lovers,

recently reunited-

we taught each other how to be good at this.

So tonight when we jocky for position

and bite hard after soft kisses,

sending shock scratch waves down each other’s thighs,

I will remember a time when we were both

too timid to kiss boldly,

when we would brush ginger and rock quiet.

We are practiced now.

Broken in by new lovers,

many years have passed since we first

plucked the metaphorical petals off our

metaphorical roses.

We have learned new tricks

with a confidence that could scare off a tidal wave

because we don’t quit.

Round One:

A reunion of our friction,

we’ll call this chapter Reintroduction.

We skip most of the foreplay.

Where you relearn the curve of my sharp pressed hip

and I, the strengthening pull of your forearms.

Round Two:

Fluid motions and movements.

I know you so well that we don’t have to plan

our readjustment,

our shape-shifter tendency.

I feel brave in the darkness of our body quake.

Then we sleep for an hour at most.

I wake up to find your lips exploring my knee cap.

Round Three:

No penetration necessary,

we always liked to do things out of order.

Insert foreplay.

We collapsed into a soggy ball of tired wrists

and lock jaw.

Success.

Round Four:

Morning.

The sun has just peered into our busy bones,

in our grogginess we fumble successfully

into each other.

You tell me my nipples have changed,

they’re different from how you remember them.

I am unsure how to respond to this.

Spent after hours of caloric exertion,

I lay back

warm and open

the beginnings of

purple/brown line drawings forming on

my thighs, breasts, forearm.

You ask me if I will tell you some of my poems.

Round Five:

It is very hard to recite poetry when someone’s

tongue is inside of you,

it is very hard to remember the words,

it is even worse when they stop when you silence.

I don’t think I will ever forget the words in those poems,

the syllables thick,

or our eye contact as our tongues flit and vibrate.

June Poem A Day: Day 3

There is a river inside my city
the quick pulse that keeps us
pushing forward.
There is current that they warn us about
but I think that its frigid energy is
cleansing.
This does not make it safe,
a discretionary body
to be used sparingly for relief
but this antidote usually acts as poison
dividing geography so rigidly-
lambasting a physical barrier
between success and disparagement.
This river should be healing
with its bridges and channels
an outreach,
but we are conditioned for separation.

June Poem-A-Day Poem 2.... (Better late than never)

I’m tired of writing poems about togetherness that aren’t really true anymore

so tomorrow

I will string the emaciated way your heart flutters over my laundry line

I will pick the furthest petals from your meadows

but I cannot help if I accidentally still give a fuck

because the morning after we loved each other timeless,

I accidentally told you that I thought a piece of us would love each other forever

and I know that’s a big thing to say

so I’m taking it back with

strawberry jam and pistachios

I’m taking it back with two fingers crossed behind my back

because you know that I’m not lying.

You are never going to teach me how to climb trees and steady my

footing because my wild

blood song

frightens your soul senseless

because somehow,

with us I hold the upper hand.

I want you to know that I’m sorry I broke your heart

threefold

but I’m not sorry I kept trying to mend it

because one of these days we will realize that

despite the fact that we will never be together,

not really,

not like that

you and I were meant to balance beside one another

which says a lot because I’ve never been good at letting go of the handlebars.

I almost phoned you tonight.

It’s a school night but we’re both not studying

and it was summer storming

beautiful

(I remember the first time you kissed me, and meant it, in the rain)

the power went out

I lit every candle I owned and read books and drank beer

and felt very alone

and I wanted to phone you tonight when the power went out

and I wanted to make puzzles with you on my kitchen floor

by candle-light

and I wanted to kiss you sopping under these heavy clouds

but we both know that I’ve done a little too much damage when it comes to you

and I worried that if I called,

you would not come.

I could not handle that part of us tonight.

So instead, when the lights came back on,

I started writing you this.

Mostly because you asked me why I’d never written a poem about us,

not a real one anyway.

June Poem-A-Day #1

The yard is dark now

and so we lie dreams facing up

to recreate the stories of the skies.

I ask the group which stars are special-

Venus is that extra bright one to the right,

right?

My star-gazing is only impressive enough

to point out the giant spoon.

The police plane keeps flying over-head.

They say that they’re tracking heat emissions-

to crack down on grow-ops and find out who’s fire-pits

aren’t actually two feet off the ground.

I like the reprieve they give the stars.

Last night I saw the sky dancing,

in soft open strings.

The lines bursting through the blackness.