It Looks Like Poetry…

So…I am not a poet. I sometimes write it when I have some big, typically terrible, emotions that I have been lugging around for a few days, but I usually go months or years without writing much in the way of poetry. When I am moved by the creative spirit though, I sometimes end up with something resembling poetry and it is always the result of my inability to contain the words. The following are some poems that I have written in such a manner. Each horribly emjambed line, ill chosen synonym, and sloppy image has proven a catharsis for me. I’m not intentionally sharing this as a way to fish for writing compliments (in fact I’d prefer if you didn’t comment at all), but I am sharing because I’d like to live my life with the sense of authentic bravery I encourage my students to live with. So…here’s to leaning into uncertainty and discomfort and sharing some really crappy poetry that maybe might encourage others to write their own story and allow words to name the demons and guide the path.

 

I Knew My Mother 

In peace- 

As her fingers traced lavender 

Across the words on the page  

And her breath brushed circles 

On my cheeks. 

 

In rage- 

As the texture of her voice pitched  

To sandy vermillion and her pulse 

Throbbed purple bruises  

Against her temples. 

 

In defiance- 

As she beat her chest and bore (t) 

Her throat like a paper soldier 

Soaked in prince-feathered power. 

 

In laughter- 

As her sweat-stained smile sent tickle 

Blues cascading through her veins 

to drip spindly kisses into words. 

 

In victory- 

As her battle cry splashed her eyes 

Amber and her roar assaulted the air 

With magnificent vibrations. (image-agitation) 

 

In defeat- 

As she slept eternalized by time 

Exhausted by her sins, shadowed by fears, 

Compressed by her wrongs, and left  

To be remembered, unknown.  

 

 

 

 

The Margin 

The margin of allowance around 

grief 

is both hollow and industrial. 

 

Banded in iron, the margin’s width 

suffocates  

those trying to survive. 

 

The margin carries a ruler to slap 

hands 

that catch tears out of turn. 

 

The connection echoes, sliding off 

walls 

colliding with airwaves. 

 

The margin stands ready with its 

watch 

ticking the molecules left in the tank. 

 

The margin lifts the beaker to  

catch 

the gasps of a breaking heart. 

 

Greedily counting.  

Coveting allowances.  

 

That. Fucking. Margin.

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