You know the way to where you’re going.

I went looking for you
and I found the birthplace of chaos.
And there, at the edge of my world,
in the space between where I’d been
and where I’m headed, upon shaky legs,
I stumbled
heart first into destiny.
I knew I had no choice but to absorb
you into this thick skin,
allow you to flow freely
through this bloodstream
of consciousness – altered -
and let you fuel
this
sputtering
heartbeat.
And now I thrive,
shamelessly, on this love -
furious, riotous, victorious -
and there are handfuls more
where it came from.
This love – overcoming,
infallible, audacious, intrepid -
has led me, singing,
into the Valley of Beracah.
I sit, mesmerized and marveling
at how warm this sunrise is
and preparing for an
unimaginable sunset.

Another draft.

If I was good at writing what I thought,
I’d come up with some way to wonder
how it’s possible that this boy is in love with me
when I’m such a wreck all the time.
Then I’d admit that, earlier when he was here,
I silently thanked God for every single freckle on his body,
especially the three on his lips which are my favorites.
I’d say that I sometimes convince myself that, if I kiss him
enough, those three freckles will somehow rub off
onto my own lips and then he’ll understand why
I always point them out to him.

I’d write about the conversation we had earlier
about fate and how I never know if I believe in it or not.
I’d say that I never know if I can believe in God
and in fate at the same time and then I’d write
that I’d decided I could because, if I’m wrong,
God would understand.

All this talk of God would make me think
of things that are bigger than me, like gravity,
and I’d say that I wish I knew how to defy it,
just so I could say that I did.
And that would make me think of those jet planes
that go fast enough to leave me speechless
and how much I’d love to fly in one.
Except, I’d get scared and I’m sure I’d be sick
so maybe it’s better that I just stay on the ground.
And that brings me back to gravity
and the fact that gravity cannot be defied
by remaining on the ground.

I’d have to write about how ridiculous
some of these thoughts have been and
how everyone always thinks their minds
move faster than other people’s when,
really, we’re all just thinking at the same speed.
Thinking about the way people think makes me think
that it’s impossible to think for yourself.
With all those thoughts there’s no way that there’s
anything original left to think.
But thinking about things that haven’t been
thought yet is like trying to create a color.
Impossible.

But forget impossible.
I’m heart-deep in an impossible situation.
In fact, when I get to heaven I will apologize
to God for ever thinking I was smart enough
to determine what was and was not possible.
I’d love to know why he didn’t make it
so that it could snow in warm weather,
and why he decided we should
sleep at night and play during the day
instead of the opposite way.
But if there’s one thing I know it’s that I know
absolutely nothing and that it’s better that way.

Draft.

If poetry were a person,
she would be a rebel.
She would put us all in our places
and I would be guilty of envy.
I would follow her around
like the big sister I never had;
dressing like she dressed,
doing what she did, and
shamelessly hoping that
I would wake up the next day
and be her instead.

Finding the words

What I would give to be bilingual;
to be fluent in both English and my soul
and be able to translate one into the other
so people might understand what I mean
when I say I need this for the moments
I want to be strong but can only manage weak.
I would love to be able to send the hardest heart
to it’s knees and leave it to it’s tears
and that feeling that only comes from
complete conviction; the one that feels
like finally finding the word that was
hiding on the tip of your tongue.
I’m the kind of girl who believes that
God wouldn’t have given me this talent
if I weren’t supposed to use it and I mean to.
But I’m in my own way, tripping over my own
fingers, stumbling over my own words.
I would love to change the world or,
at least, a life with these thoughts of mine
and maybe I can but, if that’s the case
I’ll need someone to show me where
I can find the courage to do so.

“I wish I could know what you’re thinking.”

I’ve finally figured it out.
When we’re quiet and you don’t realize
that I’m staring, in wonder, awestruck, amazed,
and you ask but I never knew how to explain:
but it’s like when I hear something beautiful
and my whole body aches from the inside out
and there’s this primal need to keep the sound
so bad that I look for a way to make
words tangible just so that I can
lock them in my room and never let them go.
It’s like I’ve found the recipe for perfect
and I don’t want to share.

So here:
You’re my poetry.
strong, precise, beautiful,
worth every breath and every heartbeat
and I will recite you until my lungs deflate
and my voice rejects me.
I will translate you into a hundred different
languages just to learn that I love you no matter what.
and then, when I can speak no longer,
I will copy you word for word,
again and again, on every surface I can reach
until my fingers break and that’s when I’ll
find someone who will read you to me, day and night,
until I am deaf. And when I can’t speak
or write or hear, I will have you tattooed on my body,
permanently so I can feel it deep beneath my skin.
And when I am old, desperate to see God
just to thank him, in person, for you
I will pass you down, to our daughters and sons
and grandchildren, in this leather-bound book
full of our stories and we will live forever that way.

Transaction Description

It doesn’t matter.
Broken things: discarded.
Past: disreguarded.
A future means nothing
if you don’t want it.
Pull it all together
to forget these roads
those nights
vibrantly colored lies
as decieving as your hands
and you couldn’t hold me if you tried.
You were my correction
incorrect
there was nothing to correct
just a wish that grew hands
convinced, not desired.
you unloved me
backwards
unintentionally first
and still last.
coming and going
and you just stay gone
the shadow with no master
as impossible as our love.

untitled

I
have been
teaching my fingers
how to write the
way your eyes change from
soft evening thunderstorm to morning ocean
and
that look
on your face
when you don’t know
that I haven’t stopped watching
because blinking might change the moment.
You
have been
teaching my fingers
how to reach for
things that wont leave me
wanting more than what I touched
and
to leave
the things they
touch in a better
state than before; to leave
my initials carved in this world.

A Moment with God

Here is infinity
smeared from cloud to cloud
branded and glittering
echoing thread-thin
hungry yet full
laughing in symphony
falling into open hands

And here is chaos
tumbling from his resting place
racing sound itself
telling secrets
faceless
scribbles on scrap paper
a ruby in the dirt

Hold my parallel universe
ink bleeding through a masterpiece
slow, but not slow enough
turning no one away
complex in origin
the shadows mother
touching – never being touched.

And write me love
golden and shining
whispered and shouted
holding my hand
the purest reflection
unending
as patient as winter.

Laying Beside the Sunshine

My favorite part comes
when I wake from one
dream and roll into another
To morning, every day
is a holiday unspoiled,
only recognized by those
who know it’s tricks.
So I climb from cottony
dreams and emerge
from just-opened eyelids
and there you are,
morning’s present to me,
gift-wrapped in my blanket
and placed in my arms.

Reunion

Restless breath
twelve steps to the door
take the corner too quickly
hand on the wall for balance
rhythm found, four more steps
familiar smile, inhale, exhale,
collide.