You used to make me cookies
And drop them at my door
But now when you bake cookies
I don’t get them anymore.
Tag: poetry
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Artwork by Issa Brown Today on Kickstarter, my project Falling Down the Well is live. This new poetry collection explores the emotional spirals that trap us, particularly when we’ve experienced a traumatic loss. The collection is beautifully illustrated by the supremely talented Issa Brown, who has been my friend and creative partner since 2018. Our funding goal is $1000, which we will use for the printing costs of the book.
If you value the writing on this blog, if you have found meaning in my work, or if you like to make sure that cool stuff gets physically put on paper, I invite you to contribute to this project.
Thank you for supporting our work.
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Photo by Chris Galbraith What pale forgotten light breaks there
Upon the fair horizon where
I cast my eyes despite the glare
Of the approaching dawn.
How could I remember not
This slow unfolding beauty, hot
With hope for all the things I thought
Were lost to me and gone.
I must reach back into the past
Where once I felt this love so fast
I could not help myself but cast
It’s soft delight around.
For too long days and longer nights
Have kept that love from burning bright
And blackened up my heart with blight
So it made not a sound.
Yet now I open up my eyes
And see the pale light in the skies
Thick with a dream that dares defy
The darkness of that brew.
So, let the light come, let it bring
Every golden, tender thing
And let my soul begin to sing
With beauty, fresh and new.
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Photo by Birger Strahl I like to flirt because
Be honest
Who doesn’t like to be told
How lovely they are
With just a look or
A brush of a touch
And who wouldn’t want to pretend
That there is no mess underneath
The smile that spreads
Through all your tender parts
When a man looks at you
Saying things that make your heart beat
Just a bit louder in your own ears?
Don’t you like that too
The little game that’s played
In the sliver of space between
Your face and his
When you feel like you could
Snap a finger and he would go down on a knee,
Beg you for a chance to do
Whatever you wanted him to do?
I know it’s all pretend
But I’m telling you
That’s why I like it.
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Photo by Annie Spratt Part of the legacy you leave
Is the astounding fact
That you walked me up a mountain
And then pushed me from the cliff.
You struck just when I thought
I was finally safe with you
Past the worst of the climb
And on my way downhill.
I didn’t know you had a faster route
A free fall into the unknown
Because you could no longer
Stand my presence.
It makes me wonder why
You walked up the mountain at all
Why not let me climb alone
In hopes that I would make a jump?
I had thought the whole the climb
You might be merely apathetic
And it wounds me now to think
I was wrong. You’re just cruel.
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Photo by Tina Bosse Two women standing in a parking lot
And one says to the other there with her
“I am in distress signing these papers,”
To which the other replies, “Yes I know
Because you have trauma and you have grief.”
The first woman, boldly sad, says to her,
“It’s not that this is not a lovely place
It’s only that,” But she can’t continue
The tears in her eyes also in her throat.
“You shouldn’t have to be here,” replies
The second woman. A blessing, a gift.
“Oh yes,” cries the first. “Thanks for seeing me.”
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Photo by Frank Albrecht There’s poison in the well
Put there by a trusted friend
One I’ll never trust again
Who proclaimed to love me, yet
Roped in those around us
To belittle and betray,
Convinced to participate in the fantasy
That anger and confusion
Collude to entangle
The otherwise level-headed.
And now there’s poison in the well
A place once vibrant and green
Turned to brackish death
That not only harms me
But all who sip from its waters.
To what end, this madness?
For the sin of refusing
To look another in the eye and say
“We both are human.”
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Photo by Sebbi Strauch It is not lost on me
That I was sent away during holy times
First, when we anticipated hope and light
Born into the darkness
Cast out among celebrations
Of joy and peace and love.
Is it not lost on me
That I returned to find nothing but callousness
A strangeness in the air that lacked
The promise of the Christ.
For a second time I was sent away as we
Collectively contemplated
Death.
Twice over wandering in the wilderness
Looking for a well
Told that banishment would be good for me
As the knife of betrayal was still buried in my back
Commiserating with the psalmist
And the man who cried from the cross
Eloi Eloi, lema sabachthani?
But what is lost on me
Is how the gospel has become
So malformed as to claim
Punishment is grace and
Exile is an attempt to reconcile.
You lost me on that one.
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Photo by Ariana Prestes When the shepherd is a wolf
The sheep will never be at ease.
It won’t matter how he tries to hide
To comfort, to appease.
The sheep might stop their stamping
Cease their fretting and their cries
They might become accustomed
To his teeth and yellow eyes
But the sheep will never trust him
Never give him true respect
Never run towards him for safety
Or for wisdom, to reflect.
Though he tuck his tail and ears
Though he file down his claws
The sheep will always know that they
Could end up in his maw.
So the sheep will be polite
They’ll always get in line
But they’ll watch their back and whisper
And they’ll wait, and bide their time.
For sheep can tell who loves them
And who is there for his own greed
And when the shepherd is a wolf
The sheep will know they’re feed.
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Photo by Yana Druzhinina Watching what was left of you
Get dumped out onto the icy stones
Your bits of bone among the dust
As the ash that once was your smile
Piled in the place where they upended the urn
Your wife in too-slick shoes
For walking on rocks
Held steady by a man who was mostly a stranger
I had to turn my eyes away
For just a moment
Because it seemed cruel to leave you
Heaped like a dune in the garden
Instead of throwing you into the wind
And letting it carry you onward
Ever upward
Free.
The Quick and the Dead 