Being heard, where confidence is lacking

Some might say you're lying
if you think the words you wield
can stop the storm.
that brighter lights will prevail,
and leave you bruised from their brilliance.
those wielded words
cast into pans
another ting against the tin
another limerick against more tired vowels.
some might say you're dreaming
if you think your visions are art,
art to change the world.
you would notice if they did.
some do say
be spoken for, or someone else will guide your tongue.
be speaking up
when you're feeling trodden down.
those words are truer said than done.
when one's the wiser to wield one's words
onto a hidden placard or a spot of lesser notice.
those words, brave they may be
are sodden with the sweat stains of
a lingering adolescence.

my job, my writing station/am I a poet yet?

Employment lends the days a longer drink
giving studious (?) brains more time to...
Nevermind, I'll be realistic.
there isn't a single chance I'll be as productive
as my Motivation Board would like to believe.
Who is? really?
Are we all driven each day to be bigger badder bolder
flying on the wings we stiched together hoping they would
fit across our shoulders another day...
are we all outgrown, outworn,
the single sighless eves that bring the darkness of the night
where brains are turned on more fully
to keep bodies from resting aching, growing bones.
too much milk.
the body yearns to extend and stretch
the mind too busy pulsing to think of shutting up.

So, my employment.
the ol' workin hours,
that whittle at my patience.
Don't think I hate it here. I don't.
It's only that my mind wishes
I were more like the poets I court inside my head.
where's my willow tree?
my french cafe?
moonlit night above the bustle of a city halfway across the world?
my dreams carry me to a train station
leatherbound, eastward bound,
bound to end up writing something, anything.
Am I a poet yet?
Can I call the Cohen's of the world my peers
if only by mere kindled hearts we sew with the same
threadbare cloth that cover our backs.

Ah, my job, my place of work.
So it is here I get to write.
and not for lack of work to do, it's just this is when
my brain allows a little impish selfishness into my day.
So it goes, it's nothing to complain about.
One day I'll find my state of mind,
or it will find me, writing, sitting...
the day will come..
and I will be a poet. 

crazy in the head [poem]

What's driving me crazy is this sensation that I’m forgetting

Where I put my most recent complaint.

I'm sorry if I dropped it on your head;

see, it seemed ok at the time,

But I’m realizing it’s a harder rock to drop

Than the speck of dust I thought I picked.

There’s a ringing in my ears,

And it’s making my hair prickle against the collar of my sweater

If I listen to its siren I almost feel seduced by the sound

Until it dies somewhere behind my left ear.

These bear hugs I wait for,

Seem so far and in between the madness ringing in my head.

I sometimes think it’s my phone

Letting me know you called.

Despite the jangling of my nerves,

The unsettling acidity of my stomach,

And the tears that bully themselves past the fortress of

My waterproof mascara.

Despite my petty worrying

I'm still a long way off from home.

The solitaire on my phone will only keep me occupied

As long as the structure of my neck holds out.

I have a feeling I’ll be leaning on my ancient chins,

Long into the night, still trying to beat the score

I set so absentmindedly last summer.

When the clubs fall short, their kings and queens more pixelated

And have lost all meaning – despite my numbing fingers

And the throbbing between my eyes

I’m still thinking about the way you smell.

Somehow hating all the little things

Makes me love the big things more.

The things that always pick me up,

When you’re the one I’m falling on.

Bustle Bee

Been a while since I wrote any poetry. I'm feeling a little artistic today (I still have pastels under my nails).
Happy Sunday everyone. xoxo

Have you beaten the path
the one that crumpled beneath your toes
the grass that brushed your calves
and dusted seeds into your socks?

Where's the edge to stand upon?
curl your toes,
your socks a treasure, neatly planted.

Lead the wind
a bustle at your back
bunched and ribboned,
tied and bowed,
a lace breeze,
your garment of the season.

Have you held back the spring,
before it leaks into a frenzy
it's busy bustle, your bustle
rustle and breeze on by.
little spring,
it's time to cross the ledge,
sprig into action
little bustle bee.

It's a sunset, somewhere.

A lazy Wednesday morning...and some random ramblings.

are you a romantic or a classicist? 
Where's your sense of bad timing, when you're always early?

 You're a ray of dusty light through the knoll in my barn house/ you're a little beam of sun spit/a little bit of somethin' else.

If you let your little light shine/don't forget to let it flicker/let it waver in the musk/let it breathe, not cough and sputter.

Hold your hands tight/you're just a little ray of sunshine/a little beam of dusty light/a little bit of somethin' else. 

les livres sont etonnants

It's a late, rainy night and I've decided to prematurely put my tax refund to work. I haven't bought any new books in a long time and I've recently lusting after more from Colum McCann. I just finished Let The Great World Spin. Ironic that I loved it since it was assigned for my english class. Anyway, my Amazon account is getting some lovin' and I'd love some input on some great reads!
I loved Stieg Larsson's Millennium Trilogy (no I won't see the movies.)
And Chuck Palahniuk is also a fantasic, cynically good read.
Gabriel Garcias Marquez is genius.
Margaret Atwood will always be close to my heart.
Yann Martel's Life of Pi is one I have read at least 5 times.


{I'd love to be perched reading here...}

Snowy Love

Snowy love.
It's a cold hand to hold.
Yours is the hand
that hands it on, chilled, and
poured over ice.
the glass' edge cusped with
The drip drip.
The icy dew.

On winter's nights,
yours is the hand
that holds mine tight.
veins pulsing with
frozen vodka,
a popsicle concoction.

Chilled hands.
Frozen feet.
The two short covers.
One might think,
you cut it short on purpose.
Just to see the icy sweat
freeze along my spine.

little love.

Today a little love came
down, and sat upon my shoulder.
It perched
And nestled in my hair, 
it's feathers tickled my neck
As it dozed under my ear.
Little love, it cooed and chirped
a little love-bird song.


Little love
it kept me company,
And reminded me of you.
I kept it close today,
this little love,
And pretended it was you.


Happy Valentine's Day 

Valentine's Eve

I apologize for lagging on the countdown this weekend. I was enjoying my own Valentine's and didn't make the time. And so, just in time for the evening before the big day, I wanted to post one of my favourite Shakespeare sonnets.  I know Shakespeare is overdone but if you can't read him at Valentine's...

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Admit impediments; love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds, 

Or bends with the remover to remove: 

O, no, it is an ever-fixèd mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken; 

It is the star to every wand'ring bark, 

Whose worth's unknown, although his heighth be taken. 

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 

But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 

If this be error and upon me proved, 

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Little Shadow

What you see is not the end
not the light, the darkness
is only proverbial.
Bring yourself closer
see the shadows
step on their toes.

You're just a little too far away
to hear the creaking cracking
just a little too far to the left,
stand up straight,
don't blink to adjust
to the gloom
Just step into the shadows
Breathe them in
You're just a little shadow too.

Be a little shadow
be proud
hold your rifle close, Shadow.
Things that bite
bare their teeth in the dark.
Things that sting
will find you Shadow.
Be brave
and remember
What you can't see
can't hurt you, little shadow.

The Sound

To the ones who are listening,

keep your ears pricked, the sound

is not a whisper

if you listen

listen closely,

it's a symphony of burbles 

of whimpers and giggles

cat calls and snickers.

Each sound resounding

the sound, its noise

a vibrating vocal

Stay on your pins

keep your needles close to

your thighs

get ready to pinch yourself, 

your ears will listen for the sound

it's a beauty full of chimes

rhymes and rhythm. 

When We Are Inspired

In circumstances that fall
into our laps,
their normalcy, the trifle
incidents that plague us like
the lingering odor of
last night's pork chops.
In these times is where we,
one little me, and I
find our inspiration.
What book blew open, distracted
on our thighs
its wind-groped pages
an impatient whirlwind, which
leaves us swept up
a crimson dirt clod
in the scattered edges of its sheets.
In these uncommon commonalities
the comings and goings
of everyday indiscretions is where
we blink into poetics.
Where our eyes become
the peepholes into
our dingy ill-lit minds.
Where we, and I
digress, and imagine that
one little me, just you
is something bigger 
than what we appear to be.

20 second poem

From what I've learned,
the instant you are struck
with a seeming strike
of genius
pen it.
Write it with a flourish
if need be.
I would.
Because,
while the rest of them
the joggers the smokers
the candlestick makers
are all going about,
you'll be the one with
the mighty pen.
So write it,
It's really all you have, right now anyway.
One word a little
too late
a little
too little.
It's all okay, 
you're just writing.
And how could that,
be wrong?

Tidbits; lacking inspiration today.

1.
I saw an interesting leaf today.
Not exactly attractive or
photo-worthy but,
interesting.
If I hadn't been looking at my feet
I would have walked
right past it,
not even blinked an eye.

Its edges are soggy
half its stem is gone
it's not good looking, this leaf.
Half in a mud puddle
half stomped into the dirt
its ruddy colour blends into the earth.

Why this leaf?
It is not the picture of
autumn deja vu.
It's a wintered, weathered
reminder
that I still have 12 weeks and 4 days
until the end of school.

Leaf,
barer of wet dreams.
And not the good kind.
Just the ones
where you wish you could
wear shoes without socks
and not get wet.

2.
There's no sarcasm today.
No pithy wit and
pursed lipped smirks.

I'm a little off my game.
Today's not the day
to break someone's heart.
You won't laugh at this,
this little poem.
Or probably the next one.
This line might be a little longer than the rest.
But that's okay,
it's always better to be different.
Even when it's only your mom
who says that's why you're special.

3.
Few can read something
and like it just the way it is.
There's always a line
a word;
one sentencethatkindofrunsonandon
that you'd rather didn't.

Maybe you think,
heart of hearts
that you can do one better.
Outdo the unhero.
Your strides will leave them
in their own dust,
stale and fragrant.

The Naked Chair

Do you ever feel more inspired
when you're sitting naked
after your morning shower?
Sometimes it's just easier
not to wear clothes.
They stifle my creativity.
I need the zen-like presence of
my nakedness
to bring forth my genius.
My chair must feel pretty lucky.
That, or I'm just using him
for his body to write silly
little poems. Naked.

My chair is from Ikea.
He's nothing special, really.
and his Swedish name doesn't sound dirty.
Torbjorn.
Maybe he was a
Swedish diplomat in another life.
Or a train conductor
with a mustache.
Whoever you were, Torbjorn,
Your destiny in this life,
is to be my naked chair.
Thank you for living out
your dreams,
Torbjorn.

Short Poems 1-6

Getting inspired to write more, I'm blasting out these poems that I wrote today. Comment if you like em! 

1.

Little brother

I do not need to hear you in the shower.

Your gurgles and throat clearing

Do not appeal to my sensitive

Half asleep ears.

2.

Your shoes are shuffling.

Did you notice?

Your feet never leave the ground

When you walk.

Maybe you have noticed

And that’s the way

Uh huh uh huh

You like it.

What a shame then,

Because you look like an idiot.

3.

Poetry submissions.

Each one of you will make it big

Someday.

You just need to be a little more eloquent

Maybe?

Or maybe,

Just a little bit of a slut.

4.

Do you ever feel like

Everyone is staring at you

On the bus?

I do. I like to think

I’m not too hard on the eyes.

I’m really just giving them someone

Less disgusting to look at.

Someone that doesn’t smell bad

Or play their music too loud.

You’re welcome, people on the bus.

5.

When I listen to music

When I write my poems

I try to not get distracted

And start typing the lyrics.

Why do I listen to music

When I write my poems then?

Because

When I listen to music

When I write my poems

I feel like the music

Is the soundtrack to the

Movie of my life.

And I feel a little more productive

Sitting here

When I write my poems.

6.

Sometimes, it’s easy to over think

what I want to write.

Sometimes I like to repeat words for emphasis.

Sometimes.

Or

Use creative enjambment to

Add suspense.

Or sometimes

I write what I know is funny.

Something like girls who wear

High heels to school.

If they’re trying to impress me

Well hot damn.

It didn’t work.

They look ridiculous

And I get a strong urge to

Jedi mind-trick them into falling

On their asses.

Thanks for giving me something

To write about,

Stupid high-heeled girls.

Little Poem

Little poem, you are lacking.

What makes you heard,

When your voice is so small?

Little poem, wipe those tears.

You will grow up soon.

Little poem, you’ll be big,

someday.

Stand up tall, Little poem.

Don’t let them push you down.

Keep your chin up, Little poem.

Little poem, you are still so young.

There are days that will seem longer.

And days that won’t be long enough.

Cherish those ones, Little poem.

When you are big someday, Little poem,

Your voice will do you proud.

Until then, be brave,

Keep your little poem heart safe.

Your not as Little as you think.

Love dot dot dot

Love is a many splendid thing,
Love, lifts us up where we belong, all we need is Love!



Just take a moment to remember those who love, are loved, and give love in return.
As the cliche goes...

But in truth, truly, and in belief,
in myth, fantasy, and in science for that matter, Love is a many splendid thing.
If Love makes you cry, laugh, scream, pray, or meditate.
Stutter or stammer
Blush or mumble
If you, when Love tickles your heart of hearts,
if you feel something. Anything at all,
that's the splendid thing, really.

It's not the postcards or the Valentines,
the love letters or the cute fridge notes,
the beauty of Love is, it is what it is.
It's a Prima Dona, a high-horsed Diva,
a photogenic beauty queen.

It's a big voice trapped in a little body
it's the butterflies that make you sick.
Love is really, what you make of it.

Your Love is not my Love,
This Love is not their Love.

What makes Love,
(and truly, what makes anything, really)
is the fact that it exists at all.
It's superficial, musculoskeletal,
and metaphysical existence is reason enough to believe.
It's here baby,
and it's here to stay.