the autopsy will find —
coloured flowers in my grey matter
still-beating poetry in my heart
unspent ink in every organ
blood saturated with love
bones mineral’d by life’s rough days
muscles fiber’d by courage and fear intertwined
and a slightly crushed but glittering soul
Personal Journal
Rejoice, lament, meander
black eyes and broken bones
rainbows and sugared donuts
overthinking and over-loving
have gotten me to this point
and still I’ve never yet made
a five-year freaking plan —
and even if I did — nothing
ever actually goes
according
to
plan
anyway
A million invisible nothings
Sometimes I get overwhelmed by nothing.
Splat!
I don’t cry over spilt milk, but a fallen scoop of ice cream is enough to ruin my whole day.
Poems that stick with me
Watering the hibiscus
this afternoon —
its weary
parched-green leaves
wilting
in this too-early April heat —
I saw a gecko
who
climbed up the side
of the splintering planter box.
My first split-second
thought —
Alice Walker’s garden gecko.
Crouching,
perfectly still —
the both of us —
I stared at it
and took in
the wonder
of it all.
It didn’t move —
was it asking
for some water?
This bliss,
it was my Paradise.
Gray, rough-coated
nature —
staring right back at me
a foot from my face.
Slowly I moved the hose
just an inch in its direction.
Walker — I’d already
named it Walker —
disappeared so fast
I didn’t even see
it go.
I wish it would’ve stayed.
I had water to give
and troubles
to wash clean.
referencing my favorite Alice Walker poem — “Going Out to the Garden,” 2011, in The World Will Follow Joy: Turning Madness Into Flowers, 2013
Cozy
hiding in my winter cocoon
not coming out again until June
Sixty-nine degrees
bliss runs wild with the breeze today—
this moment a delicious autumn cake
frosted with october’s dulcet bouquet—
worries let serenity breathe and play
while sweet nature gladness partakes
Revenant
O! how many ghosts in a wound of war.
Insomniacaholic
I’m an insomniacaholic
if there is such a thing
well, I know there is —
I am one, and their king!
journal, age fifteen
Sweet life
age split a cherry
midlife is the pit
sweet and ripe surround
Biblioinsomnia
Up late with books, reading in bed—
Up early with coffee, extra lead.
Poem of the April Palo Verde
Yellow.
Freaking.
Everywhere.
Homeward
Weather is a great metaphor for life — sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad, and there’s nothing much we can do about it but carry an umbrella or choose to dance in the rain.