I am tired
Closing eyes and forgetting the world seems small comfort yet I take it as it is, an escape from broken branches and a rotting stump. Branches that once reached for lofty heights, supple lengths filled with life and growth. Now dry, cracked. Brittle. Strewn about waiting for savage fires embrace as kindling, as this is the measure of their worth now realised
The stump that once connected roots deep and far reaching to their sky loving counterparts slowly decaying in the wake of moss, termite and age. Failing as all grand things must in their time, a pathetic remnant of strength once envied.
I am tired
What impossible destruction visited to once proud flora, what insidious reduction of life to ruin. I have grown, flourished and fallen to the elements. No water may quench the thirst of my despair, no sun rays may invigorate that which hastens to dark disrepair. The forest mourns but all are static and reach in vain to a fallen willow
I am tired
Spread my shrinking substance across the hungry undergrowth, let all within my radius take sustenance from my meager offerings. This is my final gift, a far cry from hearth and home that offered sanctuary and shade but it is what I have left to imbue.
Sleep comes swift and the leaves are of sienna hue, there is naught I can do to resist the approaching Fall. Perhaps in time the acorn may take hold and what I once was might reclaim towering observance, but earthen nurseries are sparse. Creeper vines thick. The weather unforgiving.
And I am so very tired…
Seasons flash by in giddy haste
Minutes coalesce into years and the grave awaits
But patience is its bedfellow
For an end comes to all and certainty is laughing
What tears may fall for wasted fervor
What hands may wring for that which passed by
I died today as sure as I will some time hereafter
And it crumpled my strength as a paper crane under peak hour haste
Funny thing dying, the emptiness at its core holds peace
Yet it is a quiet fear, calming and cold
If this is true deaths substance
Let it come.
It can bear me no greater sorrow than
Life as it unfolds in my hands this day
Creaks and groans from tired, unwilling bones
Threatening mutiny under the weight of recent ill
They have had their fill
I have too
It would be shortsighted to blame you
I pass no condemnation to any
When shoulders can bear a load as they must
I have spit and I have cussed
Though, no venom for your ears
All crimson disappears and I find my heart swelling once more
For the one I adore, the one I will wade
Into Stygian depths for
If it is asked of me, you see.......
I love you eternally
brown eyes, thick
lips, buzzed chest,
perky butts, romantic
kissing, cuddling during
rainstorms, intelligent
conversations, smores
and firepits, mystery,
playing hard to get,
drive, compression shorts
on treadmills and lifting
weights, a good pair
of jeans, tight shirts
smiles, white teeth
dimples, jaw lines,
awkward hands, scars,
briefs, muscle thighs,
kisses on the neck,
stomachs for pillows,
reading, tattoos, motorcycle
jackets, suits, and bowties
I am ten years old.
It is spring.
The grass has begun its transformation
from brown to green.
I am getting out of school.
I walk six blocks home alone,
creating stories of moving away,
being asked to join a boy band,
my mother getting transferred,
my father getting a real job.
There is a box of clothes on our porch.
There is no note.
I know who left it.
I drag the box inside.
It’s the first warm day since snow,
mom won’t be home for an hour,
I want to be outside, in a tree,
living someone else’s life,
but I stay inside until mom gets home.
I follow the rules.
Jake is supposed to watch me,
Who knows where he is,
Micah drops off his book bag,
Heads to the park,
He does not invite me.
When mom gets home I tell her about the box,
Run to the park and climb my favorite tree
the one that defines the makeshift end zone.
I imagine it is my home.
I am no longer a boy,
But have mutated into a tree person.
I cook and clean our branches,
polish the leaves,
raise the seed’s,
until my tree husband comes home
and he makes love to me like a redwood,
sturdy and strong.
I hear moms whistle,
jump from the tree and race my brothers home.
The box of clothes sits in our sunroom all summer,
while I am driving from field to field
moving water so my father can grow money.
I swim every day,
My skin has turned a deep brown.
I am surprised at how white my thighs are.
Tornados break the monotony of farming.
My brothers wash the boat.
My mother packs the food.
We take the camper to the lake.
My dad skis.
I watch him fall
I build sandcastles, swim with the fish,
and run around in my life jacket.
I am happy here.
Before school starts
We make one final trip.
Mom hates school shopping.
We buy only what we need.
I am limited to one pair of shoes
that will be worn during P.E.
I will wear Jake’s P.E. shoes from last year.
Micah will wear mine.
Noah will wear Micah’s.
When we get home,
we sit down and go through
the boxes of clothing
that have accumulated in our house.
They have started to overwhelm mom.
The boxes are sorted between the four of us.
Pants we don’t have a choice;
if they fit, we wear them,
no matter the condition.
But I get to choose the shirts.
The rejects become rags on the farm.
I take the stack of clothes to my bedroom,
carefully place my new wardrobe in my dresser
like it’s a collection of hope diamonds.
I am fifteen years old.
I have held my own job for three months.
I am in Old Navy.
I purchase my first brand new t-shirt.
It is blue, I wear it til the thread
in the seams break and the sleeves fall off.
I stood beneath the sky,
reached above, and clapped my hands twice,
“okay, chop-chop…
your vacation is over,
time to come home now!”
so the sky opened its mouth,
but the only thing to ever come out
(to touch the Earth again)
was the blanket of snow,
the airplane in Moscow,
a small piece of shrapnel,
the skydiver in Nashville,
raindrops from the window-sill,
cigarette butts in the landfill,
a winter storm’s icicle
a grieving mother’s feet
for the first time
in twenty seven weeks.
you left too early
for your vacation
but maybe it was for
a homecoming.
I rode the train back home that day
I reached home as a whole
But I swear to you -
I was ripped to pieces.
That if i stood still long enough
I’m convinced a stranger would
trace the cracks in my pores
with their eyes.
I once heard that the Japanese
aggrandize the damage
of broken things
Simply by filling their cracks
with gold
For, whatever withstands
destruction
and
history,
becomes
more beautiful.
And if this is the case,
then you were
the
most
beautiful.
Perhaps too beautiful
for too long,
far too long,
and i’m sorry
I’m sorry.
1, 2 & 3
Some mornings I have
To remind myself something
Is always better
Than nothing at all
That thirty minutes on an
Elliptical is
Superior than not
Getting out of bed before
Ten in the morning
4a
Cute boys in bro tanks
Bouncing bubble butts running
Around in spandex
4b
Their pecs and nipples
Poking through their cutout shirts
Is why I get up
5 & 6
Five days a week means
Losing weight and flat stomachs
My clothes don’t fit
Pants are baggy and
Falling off my ass like a
Gangster with no belt
7
Some days I push so
Hard my heart feels like it will
Burst from my rib cage
8
Some days my abs hurt
So much it is difficult
To sit in a chair
9
I don’t work out to
Be healthy, I do it to
Look sexy in bed
10, 11, & 12
Losing the weight that
Has found its home in my mid
Section has boosted
My self-confidence
But knowing that I can skip
Meals like a high school
Senior skips classes
For roller coasters, is the
Monster in my head
13
I have ran for miles
In one place, I am now a
Stagnant traveler
14 & 15
The amount of sweat
Dripping off my shirt when I’m
Finished could save the
Lives of thousands, all
You need are water filters
And a thirsty mouth
16
The elliptical
Is an awful friend, boring
And helpful at once