NPM: A lost week.

I dropped the ball this week because I won the lottery and I've been gallivanting around the world in hot air balloons and private jets, and while I was off on many adventures I adopted three children and got my hair permed and my husband and I now own a lighthouse on the Atlantic coast of Canada.

But in reality, the only thing that matters is that if I got paid to make up glamorous stories about my mundane life, I would be horribly rich. Rich enough to do those glamorous things instead of just lie about them.

The truth is that I've been busy. Busy teaching, busy stressing, busy feeling things. I've had half-written poems in my head all week but not a spare minute to write. I owe this blog 5 poems, so we'll see what we can do tonight.

4/14/14

Secret-Stealer

The shuddering wind 

owns no windows or doors

but howls them all open, just the same.

It is a secret-stealer

and a whispering danger

occasionally stopped by strong walls.

You can bundle in coats,

seal your house up tight

to keep yourself safe from its grasp.

But the beggars and lawyers,

prayers and cheaters,

all have words they wish would blow away.

4/15/14

Demands

Cinnamon sunrise, reddish brown

cracks the edges of our morning.

Sharp and distinct, a rusted blade

that crumbles without warning.

It falls on feather pillows and

coffee black as an ache.

We should not let this be.

We cannot make this break.

Our wounds won't heal

but they still make demands.

If you drink my poison

I will bandage your hands.

The war is a dusty cradle

that holds us as we fight

against the heartbeats inside us

forcing us see the light.

How hard could it be

to admit we won't win,

unless we're too tired to fight

and decide to love again?

Our wounds won't heal

but they still make demands.

If you drink my poison

I will bandage your hands.

I think that's all I can manage for now. I am seriously exhausted. More tomorrow, I promise.