seven truths

truth is hard to tell

and commitment is hard to see,

but once you find yourself,

you’ll be who you want to be.

life is hard to live,

and time is hard to stop.

but once you’ve found the edge,

you know how to avoid the drop.

death is hard to know

and grief is even harder,

but if you know the way,

you’ll spend your life smarter.

forgiveness is to beg

and cruelty is a chain,

but if you don’t forget,

a grudge will leave a stain.

compassion isn’t easy

and anger isn’t hard

but if you can’t choose between them

it will leave you scarred.

it’s rather easy to think it harsh

the lives that we all live

but if you can’t see the blessings

then life has nothing to give.

you might be frightened

by how far you have to drop

but if you don’t sink to the bottom,

you’ll never rise to the top. 

LILT

a manifesto of character

I am the flick of the hand
that initiates a card trick-

The lilt of the fingers.

I am not the fingers,

but I am the lilt.

I know who I am

but not who I want to be-

I am sometimes strong,

but sometimes soft,

like melting butter.

I am brave…

I strive to not only

speak boldly,

but act boldly to match.

A single page changed me-

I am a girl who plays war

at the lunch table, 

I am the girl

who bets on the 

stack of cards 

in her hand

because

I believe 

that I’ve got nothing 

to lose

I am a person

who will play harp for

six years

suddenly buy a guitar

drop the harp and play guitar instead…

I know who I am now…

and I want to be her

for the rest of my life.

I want people to respect her

learn from her,

and listen to her,

because she is all I have

and though she isn’t much,

I build on her

and I work with her-

we are the same,

we are different.

I want to restrain her,

she is so wildly free…

I am cautious, I am

often

an unwitting sidekick.

She is like a ride-

twisting,

turning,

jumping,

running across the tracks

click, click, click…

and I am growing into her,

because I was small,

I was quiet,

she is in charge of people

and has the ability to mean business.

She is the adrenaline

pumping through me-

she begins, now, to make my decisions.

She cut my hair,

she pierced my ear.

I am her,

and she is me.

I’m not even sure anymore.

Is she the track,

and I’m the train, loyally falling behind?

or is she the train, 

jumping ahead?

In the end, the tracks control the train

so she

must be

the track.

the light and the dark

the sky

it darkens-

and nothing is left

but twilight.

and the world

becomes shadow,

the only lights in the sky

the bright, eager stars.

and though

the stars

are beautiful-

fabulously, undeniably, beautiful...

the thing that lights them?

it

is still

the darkness.

her head, she thought, had always been full of ideas,

just the way a lightbulb

might be filled with light.

it had always been that way, she thought,

and sometimes a something good might come out, onto the paper.

but it didn’t usually, 

and when it did, 

it was good,

nearly too good. 

they stared and oohed and aahed-

but no, she thought, 

they didn’t really get it,

but then, neither did she, only knew that it was 

something

big and peculiar 

and that it would always be there,

like a memory, or a photograph.

and sometimes it would work,

the thing,

and gears would spin and locks would click-

and when the words stopped coming,

she told them,

she read to them, 

and they would say,

oh, it’s so good!

but then she realized-

didn’t they know she wanted it to be more than good?

couldn’t they tell?

but she also realized

that the words would never stop coming,

so she came to a conclusion-

the words were all she had.

the light bled from the sky in colors-

because that was how the world 

expressed itself.

silhouetted against the twilight-

was a tree,

lone,

watchful,

gnarled,

yet still there,

though totally,

utterly,

alone.

darkness blankets

slowly-

yet fast-

you could not watch it, 

yet it falls thick-

tangible,

seeming hard to miss.

tiny winking lights

scatter the pitch sky

drawing unintentional pictures,

but

unintentional

is the most beautiful kind.

a luminous bloody circle

is suspended from an invisible wire-

hanging in entire contrast

from the black-

from the black, that envelopes and sucks everything away-

the mountains,

the light,

the hand in front of your face,

the warm person next to you.

the world does not again return the land-

until the first paints

color the sky,

pinks and reds and oranges-

and a fabulous array 

of everything in between,

everything to beautiful to put into a single word.

this day is not a cold one,

where it begins with blues and grays and black.

this day is ancient,

the first day

and the last.

and once again,

there is a silhouette against the horizon-

a tree,

lone, 

watchful, 

gnarled,

yet still there,

totally,

utterly,

alone.

When there's nothing left to say

Sometimes
you can hold a person in your arms
you can cry with them
you can do everything you will
you can imagine
you can greive
you can think of the different ways that it would go
if nothing ever happened
you can look into the sky and wonder,
you yell, stomp, talk, scream,
but sometimes you don't need to-
because there's nothing left to say.

The woman that came from the forest
Who lived with the baker and the florist
Even they don't know her name
The woman who came from the forest.

Others say she came from the sea
sheltering in
a wild
golden oak tree
there's more than one,
tales of pride
and glee,
and everyone knows of the woman
from the forest
and the sea

a broken heart

she scattered the letters across the table

in a way

it used to drive me crazy

She used to leave the change

splayed out across the table

in a way that drove me crazy

she used to leave all the doors open

but even the air in the house

mourns her

so I don't close them

because if I moved the letters,

the tears would come again,

burning hot and angry, 

and if I used the change

whatever I bought would end up in the trash

and if I took all the kale out of the fridge,

I'd end up

buying more

just to remind me of her

so I slouch through open doors

and cook at a penny scattered table

and stare at rotting kale

the air from the fridge, cold,

feels like my heart

and right then it cracks

so through modern life

one would wonder

why

there is no cure for

a broken heart

My Garden Is On Fire

A world
A thorned world
With happiness
emanating
Its peaks
Mountains
Its sadness
Valleys
Canyons that do not end

My mind is like a garden on fire
Burning
Burning
My garden is black
It is charred
Like clouds 
Throwing dark shadows
Obscuring the truth
 

butterfly castles

the butterfly castles
were the king's 
before he abandoned the throne,
left Laervia, went mad, and died 
no one could blame him,
he would have gone mad either way
that was before before they came
before all of us died
before I lost my heart 
all they want is our hearts
our very souls
the essence,
some say
but they took the bodies for dessert
only I survived
living in the ruins of what used to be life
what is in my future is no longer a secret
my destiny is revealed
how could no one notice when so much of me was missing?
but there is no one here to know-
so I went ahead and lived what was left of life
which is like drinking from a shattered glass
thousands of butterfly castles
gone to waste
for they will come for 
me,
too.

Abandoned....
Vermont without slopes
abandoned....
rivers without fish
Abandoned 
in Bedminster 

Lost,
lost
alone 
unfair
suddenly gone 
a gaping hole
with ragged edges
Abandoned in Bedminster.
 

Quiet

In quiet places,

even in the quietest little nooks,

there is always a roar of unspoken words and memories.

For the quietest places are the most curious.

Laugh

I stare at the splintered wood
of the little chair I like to sit in
and it reminds me of Goldilocks,
and that makes me laugh.

Look

Look at the dawn,how the crest of the hill meets the horizon...how I wish I could preserve it

Look at the morning, the doe stepping so elegantly...how I wish I could picture it until my days are done

Look at the afternoon, the sky a calm blue, the sun itself seems to be relaxing...I know I will always treasure the sight as long as I live

Look at the evening, the pink, orange, and red unfold before your eyes...your eyes widen at the sight

Look at the night, how the stars brighten the sky, and now you lay in bed thinking of the previous wonders...and the ones yet to come.

chair

A chair I have loved,

has stood for ages it seems,

As I write this poem,

I curl my bare feet around its sturdy limbs.

my words hand in hand, slowly spin into

a soft pursuit of happiness, as a weaver cast

its yarn  into a loom.

my letters click into place and soon

they  finish their job.

What I see

I am writing. I watch my pen's shadows connect as I make a tiny dot.
Thoughts nest on that dot, then more. Big thoughts, little thoughts, every thought.
I am watching as they fill my page up.