Sunday, April 30, 2017

NPM Day 30 {Rocks & Feathers}

Rocks & Feathers
April 27, 2017

The lowest tides bring the highest pain,
she is reminded on the shore
of stones smooth and cold, and sits
to let the frigid waters wash her feet.
Wind ruffles red tendrils of hair,
rattles the anxiety caging her heart,
and a murky sunset catches all
the blue from watering eyes.
She blinks until the sky is gray,
letting waves of salty atmosphere
dry tears and clear off the seagulls.
This hurt cannot be smoothed out
and left upon the winnowing beach
among shells and gentle driftwood.
We cannot know the history of things,
how large or small a creation came
from a pebble, a branch, a leaf.
We are all just rocks and feathers.
She sees all that's been forgotten,
sandy remnants of other shores, things
which tell no stories of former greatness.
And as the night air rushes downward
it carries her, and she knows,
she could have been a mountain,
and she could have been a bird.

Saturday, April 29, 2017

NPM Day 29 {Position}

September 9, 2016

Let it be my turn.
I have begged.
In a modern era
I have found myself kneeling
under desks and
in the dark.
Let it be my turn.
I have burned photographs
and filtered out
supposed poisons,
Let it be my turn.
Always patient,
although devastated,
but somehow
never questioning
my position.
But perhaps
I should be pleading
to simply be allowed

to stand in line.

Friday, April 28, 2017

NPM Day 28 {The Pause}

The Pause
April 9, 2017

I envision myself paused, my hands pressed
against praying lips, eyes closed, all senses omitted
except the sound of my heart beating.
It's a sagacious and frequently visited image,
hoping it will lead me somewhere new,
but whether I see my body swaying
mid-song, or crouched under this desk,
I am infinitely alone in such a moment.
The world offers no insight to, nor respite from,
the haunting desire that captures me,
that subtle yet emboldened pain
always just beyond my grasp, feigning
an approach and then fading fast.
And so intrepidly I take pause, always
assuming position in solitude, always hoping
that if I open my eyes, my heartbeat
will be stronger alongside yours.

Thursday, April 27, 2017

NPM Day 27 {Roundabout}

This poem used to give me chills. They were sort of good chills, sort of bad chills. When I wrote this over seven years ago, they were my only way of processing one of the biggest fights with a friend I've ever experienced. I honestly can't even remember what the fight was about, but it went on for several months longer than I felt capable of enduring.

All I had were these words. 

And I've avoided this poem over the years, but it doesn't have power over me anymore. 

So here you go.

February 12, 2010

You are the friend of my conveniences,
coffee cups cold with petty sympathies.
You are a walk in the dark,
the translation of my nightmares,
and you lay your hands down on me
like a sacrificial beast into the flames.
You bear the knife in clammy palms,
breathing out my fate like a grudge
that holds on hopelessly.

You are the arrow that misses my heart
a thousand times too many for pity.
You stab me in the back
and apologize. You are so sorry.
Patterns go roundabout, but maybe
you will hit the target next time.

You are the accumulation of ice,
the shivering abandonment of reason.
You stab me in the back
and apologize. You are so sorry.
Patterns go roundabout,
yes is a maybe and maybe means no.
You stab me in the back

and sympathize. You are so sorry
that I am such a sorry sight.
You stab me in the hand
and put the blade in my bloody fingers
and you scream for me.
You say I did it to myself and
you say it's all my fault and
you stab me in the heart and
patronize. You are so sorry
that I don't see it your way.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

NPM Day 26 {Chalet}

December 20, 2016

Rickety seats and bright nights,
cool summers, proximal mountains,
all fade and grow hazy
under a new star.
Nobody takes these memories from me.
I say a thing can be beautiful
even after you’ve touched it,
even after I swore
it was ruined for forever.
I’m taking them all back now,
the theaters and cemeteries,
the antique stores, the lake.
I will reclaim jokes in stairwells,
and the blue tiles I stared at
during my first panic attack.
Nobody holds their record
except for me
and when they play across the silver screen
the credits will misplace your name.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

NPM Day 25 {What Kind Are You}

What Kind Are You
October 1, 2016

Dewdrop sunrising,
rumble engine drum,
shushing trees
and a draught of coffee.
I wish.

Middleofthenight anxiety,
moonlit unrest
with the Almighty.
Black tears or a dirty face.
I wish you were.

Momentous scarlet hope,
undaring questions,
gentle darkness cushions
and words pacify.

Monday, April 24, 2017

NPM Day 24 {Barefoot}

--This doesn't have to be one of your favorites, but it is one of mine.

September 29, 2016

When I was younger,
I lived in the rain;
pain held no beauty or treasure,
and no one ever spoke of
the stillness
brought in with summer’s end.
Autumn in Auburn
was damp and evergreen,
not like here where
I can stand in the parking lot
suddenly silent
without the hum of a thousand
air conditioners
and then I can move
in any direction
to crush a leaf beneath my feet.
The crisp noise resonates
off those bricks, still sore
from the cicadas’ song.
No one ever told me
the falling leaves
among ill-tempered winds
would break my heart,
would whisper my name
back against a wall of memory
until I was just a little girl again
running in the rain,
fearless of any consequences
–even barefoot.
I feel it coming every year
like the hushed breath
before a storm,
and I catch myself
longing for it and
dreading it all the same,
but can never quite prepare
for the falling
beautiful ache.