it costs you nothing to see it
though for some this alone is too high a price
the colors on the roadways after a storm
the last light before the sky goes dark
the small bright bud newly unfurled in the morning glow
what would you barter to have more of this
use your eyes as exchange
oh the value this world
Inspired by Phil
Shaking fingers, wrestling in his lap, an old man asks
“What will happen to my heart?”
Doctor flips his chart, not giving it a second thought.
“Sent for research, nothing more.”
The old man looks down at his trembling hands,
considers, “What happens to my whole heart?”
Doctor, confused, stares. “I just told you.”
The old man opens his mouth, but no sound.
How do you ask someone to comprehend the soul?
What its lived through, been through, torn apart,
and spit out from? How do you measure it and be able to say
“I’m fine,” and actually mean it?
Doctor looks back at the man. “Any other questions?”
The old man holds back tears, a swirl of anxiousness,
How will I live after this? He thinks. He replies
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
Oregon Coast Range
potential BLM sale area
no stumps,
looked untouched by logging
Stopped for lunch near large old Doug fir
base diameter:
94 inches
thick wrinkled bark with grooves
Old growth critical to ecosystem,
that tree a candidate
to be chopped down
for stockholders’ financial gain
Hell hath no Fury like a Woman scorned.
Eldest Daughter. Sister. Sage.
Wise beyond
Her mortal years.
Devotee of Righteous anger.
High Priestess of Feminine Rage.
sworn to Serve
Her silenced Sisters
Note: This poem is dedicated to anyone reading this who just starting to explore an interest in poetry. Having begun writing less than a year ago, it’s had an incredible impact on my life – Please go ahead and call yourself a “poet”, if you’re not already, and trust that the universe is leading you in the right direction <3. This is a reflection on how low, abandoned, and worthless one can feel, and how just one step in the right direction can change it all.
ten years from now
when some one small
or hurting—
or angry—
or lost—
comes to me and asks
how’d you do it?
I know what my answer will be:
I started living
I started letting myself feel
anger and injustice—
love and support—
depression and melancholy—
all of it.
I began dotting my i’s with little hearts
let the hair on my legs, my armpits, grow soft
just because I could
brought plants into my spaces
let myself breathe in fresher air
new wind in my sails I arrive
when I need to
no more rushing
I allowed the ideas to sink in
that it might be okay, to not be okay
that sometimes good enough,
is good enough
that there’s nothing wrong
with being angry
when it is a human right
to feel a full spectrum of emotions
instead of intellectualizing every minute detail
of every spiraling thought
I opened my eyes
I closed my mouth
I refreshed the page
I closed the forgotten tabs that still tugged at the back of my brain
I stopped saying
there’s still so much I haven’t done
and instead
that there’s still so much I get to do.
and that shift in perspective is what I hope to offer.
when someone asks how I did it, I’ll tell them–
I just started.
“Therefore I tell you, every sin and blasphemy will be forgiven
people, but the blasphemy against the Spirit will not be
forgiven.”
— Matt. 12:31
my words are frightened creatures
trembling in a cave of flesh, and i
cannot seem to lure them into
the green and open fields
beyond
the Son of Man warns us
the only unforgivable trespass:
to see him and harden our hearts
against who he is.
there is a promise
in the rebuke:
He is and will remain,
here and himself.
The irony: not even that
act is unforgivable, his choice.
as long as he remains (forever)
we can come back (until we cannot)
or until we do not.
purgatory
is the place
we plant
our feet
and hell is
what we choose
to live.
You aren’t good enough, you know?
I’d like to think there’s at least—
What are you talking about? So many people—
I don’t need you to defend me.
Can’t defend against fact.
Your words are uninspired, meaningless.
It feels that way sometimes.
What does He know about meaning?
You can create feelings, images,
landscapes from thought!
He creates naught
but shite and worthless musings
the ravings of a dead man.
I think, maybe, he has a point…
No. Don’t you understand? That’s what he wants.
What could you hope to know about that?
Don’t compare yourself to the greats and savants.
He’s a loser, buddy, strikes out every at bat.
No. He’s not. Don’t listen! Don’t get caught
He’s not up to the task. He has no peak, only flat.
up in his lies and his shame. You sought
He sought running, off a building—ha—splat!
expression and emotion, deeper thoughts—
His thoughts? Just shallow, shitty; a pile of scat.
shut up…
Shut up.
STOP.
I can’t hear myself think
or breathe.
I’ve no space to feel,
to be me.
I don’t know what is real.
Please, set me free.
Begone and be quiet
leave me, cease.
Go. Now.
LEAVE.
Like a moth to a candle burning I’ve always been drawn to learning,
There’s more things in this world than can be known,
All the knowledge that we gain is kept safely in our brain,
Safely stored away but on loan.
In a sudden flight of fancy it seems my mind can see,
Alexandrian scribes bent over scrolls,
Scribbling down the world’s knowledge in their Mouseion college,
It must have pleased them right down to their soles.
Two thousand years since the burning of that great warehouse of learning,
We like to think we now know all there is to know,
Computers far and wide present our collection of pride,
We marvel at the facts which they show.
Our aspirations are now so high, we kneel before A.I.
And tell ourselves we’ll no longer have to think,
While machines will do it for us we join in a great Hallelujah Chorus,
No matter it could all end in a blink.
Perhaps if men were more discerning and gave themselves to learning,
This would be paradise and peace would reign upon the earth,
We’d pursue culture and the arts and love would swell our hearts,
Creativity would be the standard currency of worth.
Exceptionally bright fluorescent lights
and the malleable paper of an office
brewed cup of tea in my hands,
I realize none of us were meant to be
like this. While I am stuck inside,
something akin to Autumn—a warm,
sticky promise of unending change
and the soft decay of time inerrant—
emerges and rears to beating heart
and a breath let loose.
Inside the office the air is sharp
enough to make our old folks shiver,
but outside, the dried and candied
husks of cicada still cling
to the rotting wood of Kentucky’s
backyard. In the spokes of every
porch railing, webs are silking,
dotting haunts yet to be.
And in the cold basement,
silverfish slither through
the cracks, mocking modern
infrastructure, making their home
in the dampness of a shower floor
or the crust of old carpet put there
by landlords of yesteryear. Even outside,
a lonely cricket sings his Geiger
counter songs, tapping his way
to reproduction, filling the world
with more song to be silenced
as the quiet clicking of plastic
keyboard tries and fails
to keep tempo.
