Has it ever occurred to you
That we’re looking at life through a keyhole?
This rusty world
Isn’t what it’s meant to be.
Any beauty we see
Are traces of something far greater
And far more wonderful
Than us or this broken world around us.
We are peering at life
Through a small sliver.
As long as we draw breathe
We have no perspective
Of what is to come.
For the opening is far too small
For us to even understand.
But I beg of you, please dont touch me
For fear that if you do
I’ll feel complete
So entirely complete
I cant give up another piece
For you to take when you leave
I’ve already dolled out to many
Like a puzzle that has lost its edge pieces
I struggle to see the shape of myself
Because of what people have taken from me.
I dont have much left to give
So I keep what remains close
For fear of losing the remnants
The shreds that I have left.
Please understand
They’re all I have.
At nights when I feel the emptiness hanging over my head
They’re the pieces that I hold close
Because at least I have them
But I really want you.
And that’s this whole predicament.
I feel like a child in an arcade
I’ve already spent all my tokens
On broken games.
Gambles lost.
Chasing after the hope that
This time, I’ll win.
But its not really about winning and losing anymore.
It’s about surviving.
But what do I do now
As I need love to survive
Hello, friends!
It’s been a long week. I’ve been sick for the last few days, all while trying for my finals and, much to my dismay, I found my lovely beta fish dead in his tank (RIP Bernard). It’s just been a rough past couple of days and my poor dead fish seemed to be the physical manifestation of it. So, in a moment of sadness, I wrote a little poem for my fish who kept me company during my freshman year and first half of my sophomore year. You’ll be surprised what can inspire poetry. I find it’s often the little things. So, without further ado, enjoy my homage.
Blue scales and bubbles
The gentle hum of the filter
You were a quiet, honest presence
In a world of noise and worry.
I looked forward to those moments
When I’d sprinkle your food inside
And you’d come out
And share a meal with me
For that is how connection is made
I had a suspicion that I was going soft
When I bought you plants and pebbles
To decorate your home.
But I wanted you to be happy
Because that is my nature
As it was yours to you bump against the glass when I came home every day.
I told myself it was your way of say hi.
I knew I had gone soft
When I found your body plastered against the filter,
And your beautiful scales sucked away.
And when I settled for sleep
And looked to my right,
I wasn’t greeted with the flick of a tail,
Or the healing hum of the tank.
Just an empty container of pebble and rock
With no soul inside.
I cried more than I thought I would
For something so small
But so beautiful.
A Sestina
This story begins as many. Once upon a time,
The Reaper lived in a kingdom of bones
His job to collect the souls that rest.
Adorned with a scowl and a cloak grey.
Every day he woke, alone. Every morning he sadly rose.
His love being only his garden.
But it did not love him back, his garden.
He would tend his plants, time after time,
He would have been content only with a single red rose,
A rose to brighten his kingdom of bones
But alas his flowers would die, his garden as grey
As the face of those who passed.
But as fate would have it, a woman he passed,
For his errands called him to the surface where he saw a garden.
Lush and green, filled with red blooms. This gardener’s domain was not grey.
So he offered her pay to stay with him for a time,
To tend his garden, in his kingdom of bones
In hopes the gardener would yield him a rose.
She agreed, saying she would give him his rose
Before three months would pass.
And so they went together, to the land of old bones,
Where the woman worked to make a beautiful garden
For the reaper. A place where he could bide his time.
A place beyond the reach of the underworld’s grey.
The gardener toiled, her garden green against the skyline so grey.
And on the third month, as promised, she yielded the reaper a rose.
Delighted, he put it beside his bed, where he could see it all the time.
Every time he would wave at the gardener as he walked passed,
The smile on his face not only because of the garden.
His mind no longer burdened with thoughts of souls and bones.
But alas, oh, alas, the gardener was not made to stay in the kingdom of bones,
For the green drew the attention of the souls who were jealous in the grey.
So, one day, when the reaper was gone, they found their way to the garden.
And there they destroyed every living thing. Every single rose.
The Reaper returned and knew something was wrong as he walked passed,
The gate was ajar. He ran to her, but, tragically, the gardener had run out of time.
There in the garden, the Reaper cried, laying to rest her bones.
He could not fix it this time. The grey had won.
But as time passed, as if in defiance, on her grave, it can be seen growing tall. A rose.
Once I found home In a place
A House of brick I couldn’t replace
But in wind and rain, it crumbled down.
Home in a Thing, cannot be found.
Once I found home in a love
But twas fleeting as a dove
I came to realize then, when they left
You cannot find home in what draws breath.
Once I found home in the mirror
In life I plunged forward with no fear
But failure came, despite giving my best
You cannot find home in your own chest.
Then I found a home, in a voice
The path that I had chosen was my own choice
But there is one, who can renew,
And transform even the likes of you.
On this Earth, no home is found.
Not in person, thing, or town.
It is found in someone who offers grace.
I’ll know home, when I see his face.
The reality of poetry is nothing is ever new
Every word before the formation of the language was thought of and known.
The reality of poetry is it has all been written.
The reality of poetry is you are not actually writing. You are pointing.
To what are you pointing?
Something bigger and more beautiful than what is before your eyes
The world you see is a painting
And what else is a painting for but to reveal the heart of the painter.
And so that’s what I hope to do
With every syllable
And Every pen stroke
To reveal the heart of the painter
Regret
Sounds like…
Voices cracking in the middle of the explanation.
Apologies that never get heard.
Rehearsal but no performance.
Regret
Looks like…
Everything but their face, because you’re looking all around so you don’t have to meet their gaze.
Silence that weighs heavier than any words ever could.
Absence.
Regret
Tastes like…
The same cup of coffee you’ve had every morning for the past three years.
I remember when she was 11 and I was 7
I always got my sister’s old hand me downs. My mom would put the big shoes on my feet. She’d squish the ends to see if they would fit. She would tell me, before I knew it, I’d be in my sister’s shoes.
We made sticky mud pies and told stories. Got grass stained knees and carpet burns. It was nights of lightning bugs and cart wheels that made the world turn.
I remember when she was 15 and I was 11
She didn’t like looking in the mirror but she would still look. She hid behind her hair and cut herself bangs. Friends were scarce because children are cruel. This I came to know too well.
I remember when I was 15 and she was 19.
Social circles became webs to navigate. She said, they said, who said, who cares? They care, I don’t, What happened? Unfair!
I don’t know how, but we made it out in one piece. First my sister, and then me.
Now she’s having a kid, and I’m 19.
I know I’m next.
The next sister in line.
If I’ll blink, I’ll miss it.
My mother was right.
Before I knew it, I’d be in my sister’s shoes.
★When you’re writing poetry, you don’t have to write the perfect poem. You just have to write today’s poem.
★Read the work of poets your love, but also vary your tastes. There’s something to learn from everyone.
★Give yourself permission to write whatever you feel like writing. If that’s trash, then write trash. We’ll worry about making the trash “pretty” and “clever” later.
★Play with rhyme. Play with with free verse. Play with alliteration. Play with everything.
★Poetry is like literally every other hobby. Practice and get better.
★Keep a journal
★If you have an idea, write it down right then before it flies away. Inspiration is fleeting. It’s easier to catch that butterfly right in front of you than to chase down one that is miles away.
★Be Vulnerable.
★You don’t have to be angsty. You don’t have to have a “muse” or whatever that means. You just need to be a living, breathing person to write poetry and that is enough.
★Understand that not every poem is meant to be shared.
How do you think a cat would spend its final life?
If it were old and on the ninth
I think a cat would spend its last days
Snoozing in the sun’s streaming rays.
Batting around that ball of lint
Dart around the hall, in a sprint.
And did I mention the
Sleeping. Sleeping. Sleeping.
And around the corners always peeping.
In short I would have to say,
That a cat would spend even its final day
Much how spent every year
Happy and without a single fear.
A cat on even its final minute.
Wouldn’t hesitate to then spend it
Dozing peacefully next to you, as your pet.
Because unlike you, he has no regret.
