Have you ever plucked out your own heart
and felt it still beating
and taken a bite?
As your own blood cascades from your lips
you realize that despite this
you are still living.
poetry
Rest
It’s a pocket of sunlight
through an old, weathered window,
dappling warm and inviting on the bedspread,
an easy place to spend a waking dream.
It’s a storm at night,
rumbling thunder singing low and captivating,
as the pitter patter of the rain
echoes in the dancing shadows on the wall.
It’s a warm winter morning
with glittering snow between the trees,
the dusting of white lustrous and fresh
burying the secrets
of all the days before it.
Beneath the Dirt
I was buried.
Trapped in my own darkness,
watching slivers of light come and go,
too disoriented and tired to chase them.
Suddenly,
the dirt fell away from my eyes;
realizations became understanding
and the light didn’t seem so far away.
For the first time,
it was easy to stand up
and reach toward the sun.
Places I Left My Heart
The house I grew up in and the swing set in the yard, the lid of the sandbox colored with marker to look like a giant pumpkin
in the town I attended college and the nature preserve behind it, the walking trails bursting with the smell of green life under the light of a full moon
the beach near my apartment in Los Angeles, the smell of sunscreen and salt, and the bluffs of Palos Verdes overlooking a sparkling ocean
the crowded, bustling streets of New York City, decorated with lamplight, no stars in sight, and soft snowfall melting in my hair
on Gramma’s porch, where she would tell me about chickadees and sing A Bushel and a Peck, feeding me chocolate covered graham crackers or popsicles
the theater in LA where I spent hours in rehearsal, selling tickets, and partying until the early hours of the morning, the smells of cigarette smoke and sweat hovering in the doorway
a house my aunt no longer owns, where we had dozens of Thanksgivings and Christmases, carving our names in the foam exterior of the air return in the basement
the house my Pépé built, with its glass doorknobs and pine paneled walls, and late summers picking blueberries from the bushes around the pond
in the heart of a friend I haven’t seen in half a decade, who lives in a city I’ve never been to, without whom life hasn’t been the same-
Pieces of my heart lie in memories and loves, lost feelings and burning hopes,
they are the sum of my scattered soul.
Today
I miss early morning showers, walking through brisk air,
and the first cup of coffee in the office before anyone else gets in.
I miss the hustle of the city, hurrying to catch a train,
laughing with friends while running to get out of an unexpected downpour.
I miss quiet, dirty bars,
with tipsy bartenders and bad karaoke singers in the back.
I miss sunny walks through the park,
seeing endless amounts of dogs and people laying out on blankets.
I miss the city at night,
pools of light on street corners and the soft cooing of sleepy pigeons.
I miss ten minute train delays, waiting too long for an under-baked bagel,
I miss tripping into a puddle and shrieking when my pants get muddy,
I miss the quickening of my heart when I think I’ve lost my metrocard,
I miss the smell of street vendors even though I hate hot dogs,
and I miss the kindness of strangers, the reliance we have on each other.
I miss New York.
I miss my life.
Isolation
An uncommon quiet fills the air
and overwhelms any awareness of time.
Sunlight still streams through the back window
and the cat still lays in the patch of white light
stretching his big paws as he lets out a yawn.
There is still cooking and baking,
practicing the piano and taking gentle naps.
The silence becomes discounted,
part of the everyday,
part of life.
When there is a siren now,
a noise once part of the background of the city,
it rips at the air and ravages the ears,
ruining the reverie,
a grating reminder of the truth outside the solitude.
Circling The Sky
This is a poem based off of this project on HitRecord: https://hitrecord.org/projects/4065979
The air is clear here.
It rustles through the trees
and lifts the puffy clouds
that spend their time
circling the sky-
no city smog
no angry horns or shouts-
just the endless horizon
and a long awaited dream.
Everything Falls Free
How do you describe it?
I asked this of myself,
regarding a feeling I have no words for
The closest I can think of is absence
nothing sticks
Not in my hands, through my eyes,
or on my mind
everything falls free
A sieve
that lets everything slip out
but sadness
Trapped Inside
Sometimes
your head and your heart are full
with memories and faces, words and hopes and dreams
but when you sit down to write
or call a friend to talk
your mouth and your fingers
are empty
After Dinner
Classical music wafts in the background,
a low, tinkling sound that melds with the rattle of the radiators.
The dishes are piled up, needing to be washed,
the laundry hangs from miscellaneous light fixtures as it dries,
and the crumbs from dinner are spread across the couch.
But I will sit,
and try to enjoy this cup of coffee.
Perhaps I will figure out
how to tread water in this melancholy
because otherwise
I will drown in it.
