Lately my poems start like this;
and a soft spirit.
Unfolding before my eyes is a battle I am choosing to lose;
dimming the show lights,
walking away in a sigh.
I should give myself a standing ovation
for a battle well fought;
for the pain and cold well braced.
But I can tell this is not the end-
please pass me the blood bucket.
I wrote Fade a month ago. Last weekend, my father showed up at home and I am currently completely lost.
After you left;
I take in my nights like I take my evening cup of milk;
pausing to taste the distinct taste of disappointment,
Clasping the mug tightly as if to stop from falling
a heart too burdened by pain.
Slow fade by Ruth B is playing in the background,
like the unsaid prayers
dangling from my mothers lips.
I am hoping you fade;
Memories of you to wash out like my favourite pair of jeans,
Syllables of your name disappear
like a sunset stolen by evening rains.
*my father upped and left sometime last year and this is the first time I am able to write about it*
Books like these lead to nowhere;
They start right in the middle
describing brittle laughter,
and eyes full of hope.
Books like these talk of love as easy;
like petals gently kissing the ground,
“He loves me, he loves me not,
He loves me.”
Books like these speak of Wednesday evening like they would a Sunday morning;
warm mugs of milk,
and jazz music.
Books like these speak of souls blooming in purple and blue,
Souls infinitely becoming.
What is the word for the feeling you get morning after you cry your eyes out?
Your body buoyant like a fluid
and puffy eyes.
What of the moments you paint your dreams with faint font,
whispering prayers through dried lipstick?
Like a mother waiting at the shore
for a soldier son in high tides.
What is the word for hiding your hurt
passing it out like a thin fart hoping no one smells it?
Learning to heal your wounds with slow Sunday mornings
and cheap black coffee.
What is the word for being young, hopeful and miles from home?
A young lass learning to become.
The thing about getting older is how you love:
like dandelion and wind
keeping each others spirit afloat.
The thing about getting older is how you breath:
like a feather settling on still sand on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
The thing about getting older is how you grow into yourself:
like the moon going through it’s phases till it’s full again.
The thing about getting older:
Is how much you become.
Lately I have been thinking about you:
your bushy eyelashes,
the depth in your spine,
how it dangles from the lips like a reminiscing tear.
I think of our hanging goodbye;
unspoken, kept inside as a hidden path that leads to the treasure that is you.
I think of our sinful nights;
halfway smoked blunts,
sluggish whispers of hopes,
dewy, lusty kisses.
On these days I wonder-
should I come running to you,
what would I find in your heart?
a whisper of my name?
a yearning for a lingering night?
I wanted you then,
and sometimes, even now
I still do.
There is a fire in me;
an ignition to a land I know not-
a myth of my own making.
There is a sojourner in the mind;
one holding back the reins of my dreams-
slowly sipping the race off my bones.
There is a battle raging in me;
boots besides my bed that are too huge for me to fill-
and a folding spirit of what was once a soldier.
There are rapid visions in my head;
of a land dripping with milk and honey-
But all I am is a small village girl
carving out a place for herself in a big city.
Do you know how hard that is?