Poetry Pot-Luck

The other day I heard some women discussing poetry. I poked my head in and got invited to their poetry pot-luck tonight!

The theme of the evening is, I guess, a line from (or inspired by? I’m  not sure…) “The Revenant” but it is :”snow doesn’t melt on a dead man”.

 

Intense, eh?

 

I’m  really excited fo r a chance to be writing poetry again.

 

 

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Walking Thoughts

Dear used condom in the middle of the intersection,

How did you get there?

What path possibly could have led you to this place?

Did you fly out of a window? Did you fall out of a bag?

Were you picked up by a someone who thinks stoplights are just unspeakably attractive?

How did you come to be in this place?

I would ask your story…

but it’s probably best I don’t know.

Ring-Stained Fingers

I wear your rings every chance  I get.

I wear them because they stain my fingers

I have necklaces

they hang heavy around my neck

leaving dark green prints where they lie

twisting down my skin live ivy

chain prints held in time

captured by my very cells

trying to hang on to you.

 

I wear your rings because I lose things.

They fall through the cracks between here and there.

All the physical pieces, every thread of memory,

every stain that came from a story

and was patched with late night or early mornings,

unexpected letters,

emails that might have been to honest to actually send

text messages that say nothing other than

 

I love you.

 

I wear you rings

because everything else slips through my fingers.

Some things can be rebuilt

Some things can be remembered.

 

I never learned what those things were,

so I hold on tight

to what I have.

 

I wear your rings

Because they stain my fingers.

 

So even after I take them off

I can see the shadows of them.

Stained into my skin.

Like it was meant to be there.

Like if I tried hard enough it would never go away.

 

Warm Texas Nights

There’s something about nights in Texas, when there’s just enough humidity to carry the heat through the night after the sun goes down.

Dark skies and warm winds, dual lights from the cityscape and the stars.

I feel like I could walk forever.

This is the kind of night that is dark and warm like safety; like curling up under a duvet, or steaming coffee after coming in from the snow.

It feels like when your eyes are closed, but your hand is being held.

It’s the kind of potential, of trust.

It’s the sort of night that is made to foster life.

No harm can come from this night;

it is just the starting place, the foundation.

 

It is the blank stage, waiting to be filled with people.

Hole-Toed Socks

There are holes

in the toes of all of my socks.

places where my feet don’t fit anymore, where my skin is pushing through the neon-coloured stretch fabric.

Where the rolling motion of my feet as I walk has pushed against the insides of my shoes for a few steps too many. The paths that I’ve walked have become too long, too much, more than thin, mismatched pieces of cloth can take.

Some of them have found their way to a box, ragged around the edges, stained, smelling of grease, and sweat, turpentine and sawdust; a perfect fit for a hand reaching into small corners.

Some of them will go back in the was – they aren’t that bad yet. Just a speck of skin, that will surely grow as threads unravel under movement.

Some of them are torn; rough, jagged flaps where punctures have torn them.

 

I have holes in all of my socks.

I got them from walking the places I like to go. I tore them apart by being un-containable. I am footsteps and friction.

Somtimes it ends in blisters, sometimes in blood.

 

Sometimes in ends in silence.

 

Sometimes it ends in contended weariness, pulling off memories, rolling them down, sliding them off and leaving them all over the floor to be gone through later.

A Midnight Wander

I went for a walk at midnight last night.

It was beautiful.

It was just wet enough that the air was seemed to be full of mist; just enough to be seen in the haze of the streetlights. I still think of words like “mist” and my body remembers cold, but it isn’t here. It fills lungs with warmth; slicks skin with dew.

It makes the air just thick enough to almost feel like it can be touched. Not the heavy, oppressive humidity of thunderstorms, hanging heavy on shoulders and pushing it’s way into throats, but just enough on dance along the edge of something magical.

It’s the kind of deep breath that feels like discovery, like tonight, with the wind as a friend and the moon as a guide, there is nowhere that is out of reach. It’s the kind of air that can be felt through spread fingers, leaving teasing hints that somehow, some way, it could be caught.

Half-Moon and Headlights

I went for a wlak beneath the half-moon.

The stars were out and the wind picked up and it felt a bit like freedom.

It felt a bit like reckless, a bit like stupid, and a bit like maybe I can *do* this.
I walked into an endless stream of light from the headlights of oncoming traffic and I felt for the first time in a long while that maybe I’m finally in the right place.
There is wind, and hills and warmth and stars, but there are also the shimmering lights of city, in every direction.
There are people here.
There is broken glass on the pavement, and keys, painted into rainbow tie-dye patterns that have been dropped in dirt paths.
There are neighbours and friends and people that I will never meet.
It’s so beautiful.

Scraped Out

Lately, I’ve had this feeling of being hollow. Like I have some echoing space between my shoulders that just got scraped out. It’s raw, and it hurts a little bit, and I’m not sure what was there before, or what’s going to fill it now.

But I think it’s good.

It’s the kind of hurt from when you’ve clipped your nails too far back but they’re starting to grow again. The kind of itchy-ache from skin healing over and bones knitting back together.

It’s the scraped out that means starting again. The scraped out that means space for new things to grow.

Right now it echoes, but it means that I can fill it with the sounds I want to hear.

Travelling in Sunset

There was smoke rising over every hill on the trip out to the coast.

I looked out the window, and thought that it was sunset; the sky was dusty with lavender and the sun was the color of hot metal.

It was mid-afternoon.

The colors set and drifted for hours. It was the smoky dark of twilight, but with no shadows. It wasn’t the creeping darkness sliding into corners and expanding.

It was just a bus, heading to the sea, under the tired rainbow of evening.