poetry archive

The wind this time isn't like the others.
It doesn't buffet any long-sore places,
Or tear the sand away from secrets.
It leaves everything alone,
Merely breathes upon the surface
of things I never noticed before.

Past the flowers
all of them
competing for my bright attention
leaves of shade
silent and cool 
where you wait for me

every day
I laugh
and push
death aside

The things that will not leave your mind
a flake of tobacco
the curl of sugar flesh
stars overhead
the heft of a body withdrawn
to another place
but not gone
not gone

something washed against me when you spoke
like the cold blue earth curving up to meet
the mortal soles of my feet
a surge
a tide
a memory formed before I was born
on the bottom of the ocean
you coming into being
while I was coming into light
as if I were the soil awaiting you

older poems

I wrote most of these between 10 and 15 years old. Some of them rhyme, which I know is out of fashion these days, but I still love them. They remind me of that weird and awful / wonderful phase of my life.