yes yes yes.

I suppose I love this life, in spite of my clenched fist.

I open my palm and my lifelines look like branches from an Aspen tree,
and there are songbirds perched on the tips of my fingers,
and I wonder if Beethoven held his breath
the first time his fingers touched the keys
the same way a soldier holds his breath
the first time his finger clicks the trigger.
We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.

But my lungs remember
the day my mother took my hand and placed it on her belly
and told me the symphony beneath was my baby sister's heartbeat.
And I knew life would tremble.


This is an excerpt from Andrea Gibson's poem Birthday, For Jen. I can't express how much I love her writing. Just so good.

it doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.

The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer It doesn't interest me what you do for a living I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing. It doesn't interest me how old you are I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love for your dreams for the adventure of being alive. It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon... I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain mine or your own without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it. I want to know if you can be with joy mine or your own if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful be realistic to remember the limitations of being human. It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy. I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure yours and mine and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes." It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after a night of grief and despair weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children. It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back. It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments. photofromhere

day old coffee and cigarettes.

photofromhere

I can smell yesterday on your breath,
Day old coffee and cigarettes.
Your grey eyes are raw from another restless, sleepless night.

Your smile is stained with apathy,
Hands, calloused and shivering.
I hold you in my arms and tell you everything will be alright.

I know you're tired but you cant sleep.
I know you're broken but you don't weep.
An unwelcome pain has grown accustomed to your bones.

Can you hear me through the haze?
Don't you dare pull away.
Nobody should ever walk alone.

I know your shit got tough,
But we're all a little fucked up.
We've been tainted but at least we're alive.

You're drowning in this organic flood.
Choking on life's flesh, bones, blood.
You have to breathe, you have to fight, you have to rise.

I know you're tired but you cant sleep
I know you're broken but you don't weep.
An unwelcome pain has grown accustomed to your bones.

Can you hear me through the haze?
Don't you dare pull away.
Nobody should ever walk alone.

click to listen

legos and cat power

I officially lovelovelove my creative writing class. My professor is awesome. He listens to fleet foxes and says "shitbags!" all the time.
Bad ass.
Also, today in class we played with legos while listening to cat power and flaming lips.
Awesome.
Anyways, here's the latest poem I had to write in villanelle style.


Requiem Dance

The trees are singing their fiery chants.
With leaves aflame, falling.
Swaying in the season's requiem dance!

The world is writhing, every bird, insect and plant.
The sparrows are serenading this untamed waltz.
The trees are singing their fiery chants.

Rain skips across the earth, a pitter-patter prance.
It bounces off the wings of birds and human faces.
Slipping, dripping in the season’s requiem dance.

Cicadas roar, buzz until they cant, they pant.
A slow fade, a slight decay…
But the trees are still singing their fiery chants!

The sun laments the end of its symbiotic romance.
[No longer will it warm the earth, the water, the sky.]
Softly wailing in the season’s requiem dance.

Summer’s din dies down, its limbs relax, refrain.
Now only quiet echoes, whispers remain.
Just the trees singing their fiery chants
Swaying in the season's requiem dance.

Dickinson, Frost, Whitman, Plath, Bukowski, and Henley

I was ten when I first met Emily.
She was as small and quiet as I.
She taught me of the imminence of death, my mortality,
That sometimes someone’s kiss means less than the glance of their eye.

When I was 13, with Robert & Walt I formed an unbreakable bond.
“Take the road less traveled! Your life is unique!” was our passionate stand.
At 16, Sylvia became my greatest confidant.
My fears of nonexistence were met with her reminder that I am I am I am!

When I was 18 and distressed, Charles spoke quietly to my heart,
[They can’t get all of me in this space!]
Now at 19 William has helped give my life a start.
With the knowledge that I am the captain of my soul! I am the master of my fate!

Though my friends and I have never really met, they’ve helped me though the years.
Their words make sense, they soothe my soul, they qualm my worries and fears.