I Have My Mother’s Hands

I have my mother’s hands.
I was never one who could lead a crowd,
So I sang with the people
And nearly drowned.
And I have my father’s hands, too.
Sometimes, the knuckles, they turn blue
With rage, not white.
But I’ve not once raised them in a fight.
My grandmother’s are there
In the nails kept bare
Because yarn causes cracks and flakes.
And polish chips don’t help when you bake.
I see generations in the span
In the space between fingers, in what I can
Or can’t do.
One day maybe I’ll see you
And your hand, so small, so pink.
Sometimes I want you so bad, and I think
Of the history passed beyond you and me,
A future maybe I’ll grow to see.
But for now I’m alone, walking the land
With the memories held
In the palm of a hand.

I Wish I Still Had Scars From You

I wish I still had scars from you.
Because when I remember
how I hurt you,
I want to rip my skin
into shreds of paper
that blow in the wind until I am no more.
I wish I could bleed,
tear at my soul
until nothing exists
but the blood and the bone
of my very being
and I am alone.
It hurts to recall,
a pit in my stomach
growing and absorbing all light and life
until it sits,
gnawing at my heart,
indulging in each beat with relish.
And I’m sorry.
There’s a passive aggressive bone hidden
somewhere within the ribs,
maybe the third one down,
and it poisons my mind.
And I’m sorry.
My blood is ichor,
but the devil’s instead,
and it scorches and twists through veins
until boiling into one unleashed act.
And I’m sorry
that I can’t find the words to express it.
That I have to be rude.
That I pushed you away.
Because I can’t have people close
when I fail to live up to
the expectations
of myself.

Love Discarded

I have issues, this I know.
For my history tells me so.
But you were different, never the worst,
never thinking I was cursed,
or flawed.
Maybe if I still believed in God.

But it’s painful, sometimes,
you and me,
the way we be,
is it heaven or hell
(it hurts so bad I cannot tell).

And I still love you.
Or I think I do, or did;
split apart, god forbid
in hide and seek if I hid,
because you would never search for me.

It’s leaves on the branches in a tree,
our love the breeze,
our bodies dashed on the ground,
broken skeletons of plants dissolved,
so I let you go.

I’m Obsessed

World’s Turning,
and I Don’t Want To Know.
it’s Secondhand News,
that i’m Nothing Without You.
Brown Eyes, Cool Water.
Crystal Dreams Everywhere;
Fireflies, Dragonflies.
Little Lies.
Don’t Stop.
i’m Hypnotized.

Sara,
my Rhiannon,
my Albatross,
I’m So Afraid.
In The Back Of My Mind
Isn’t It Midnight?
i Need Your Love So Bad,
our Tango In The Night.

Love Is Dangerous,
but Love Shines.
my Seven Wonders,
my Silver Springs,
Gold Dust Woman,
I Do. I Do. I Do.

i’m a Sentimental Lady,
I Know I’m Not Wrong.
so Save Me,
Say You Love Me,
Say You Will.
I’m in Over My Head,
Over And Over,
Only Over You.
it’s a Monday Morning Landslide,
and i Can’t Go Back
Without You.

At The End

At the end
or perhaps, the beginning,
there was me
and you,
a boy,
a girl,
stuck on the edge
of a wheel,
feet skimming the grass,
hovering,
staring.
Hands itching closer,
closer,
fingers stretching
as much as fingers can,
bones pressing at the fabric of skin
until nothing
except a spark,
static,
the universe itself,
lay between the outstretched hands
And the wheel turned,
grass brushing
bare feet,
soft skin,
and the distance grew,
shrunk,
melted away
in the mist of the day
that had become night
in the time it took
for two hands
to touch,
for fingers
to brush,
for a beginning to end
and an end to begin
and a wheel to turn
the cycle again.

The City Is Quiet Tonight

The city is quiet tonight.
No noise, no life.
Just starlight
And us,
Two heartbeats in a city
That calls to us,
Beckons us,
Becomes us.
Two souls wandering alone,
Fingers itching to touch,
To hold,
To map out your body,
My own city,
Always quiet, and calm,
No others but us.
The city is beautiful tonight.

I also posted this on my Instagram, and I sometimes post small poems there, too.

Thank You Cards

Thank you cards I’ve left, forgotten,
cast aside,
packed with blank stationary,
an afterthought,
because surely you know,
you’ve always known.
How your words and your gifts
become stars in the sky
that light up the path that I tread.
How the packages and ribbons
mean nothing
compared to your arm in mine along the shore.
How a fake smile and a laugh
at a terrible gift
only disguise the love and affection
and joy at being remembered.
Sure, relatives and far-away friends
who send their gifts in post-office wrapping
and cards littered with stamps,
they should get a thank you card.
But a phone call has replaced the written word,
and can convey much more
than ink on paper,
and so half-finished thank you cards
are discarded and pushed aside,
because you don’t need my words to tell you
that you are loved
by me.