Archives for posts with tag: poetry

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Four tornadoes whipped around in circles outside my window. I was concerned about their closeness. When a baseball was thrown right into the window. Not shattering it, but leaving behind a small peep-hole, enough space for only the ball to pass through and for us to look out into the ominous dark sky. At eye-level, nothing was separating us from the elements. It wasn’t until later that I discovered the grey sky had been seeping in all along, and slowly expanding into the room.


I took his paintbrush and his paint to cover my walls pale yellow. I dipped my brush in the paint, only to realize how big the room really was and that it would take me a good amount of time to transform. So, I stopped. Sat down and waited for him in his truck. When he found me later in the driver’s seat he looked frustrated, but couldn’t help to laugh. It was the last place he expected to find me. A small game of hide and seek.

I was waiting for you, I smiled.

To which he replied, You would have been waiting a long time.

To seek and not be found might be the greatest disappointment. That, and an unfinished paint job.


I was dancing in my kitchen. No one was watching except the shadow of my younger self. She looks at me and I stop mid-twirl. I don’t know how I got here. But the light filters in and touches my face just right. I don’t care if anyone discovers me. They would be surprised to find me here. Alone in my kitchen.

The room was bare. Only the window left open. I thought about my security and for a moment reached out to shut the window pane.

But stopped.

I decided to leave the window open because it was old and chipped and likely to be stuck in its frame.


He took flight before he was supposed to. Landed right down there in the crack of that cobalt blue ocean. I wasn’t going to help him. He had to help himself. Free his body from that cold sea and lift himself onto the icy shelf. Which he did and he learned his lesson, I guess.

We were given the largest schooner. The one with billowing sails, laced and layered upon each other. Carrying us forward in the gentle wind. Gliding through the warm waters. Spraying us with salty sea.

We slowed once to greet a friendly walrus poking its silky wet nose above the water’s cusp. It was then a gust of angry winds swooped in and lifted the bow high into the air. We heard the crack of walnut wood, our boat splitting in two, casting us into the sea.

I watched my father fall. Disappear into the dark waters. Our dismembered ship lay floating, scattered, and moving with the current. A tangled mass of splintered wood.

The Islanders learned of the accident almost immediately. They arrived in masses. Diligent arm ants on the call of duty. This was their beloved ship. We had sunk their best boat.

I was rescued by the graces of an Indian fisherman. Only he helped me into a water taxi because he believed I wouldn’t like the smell of dead cod fish sloshing around in his steel dory.

Tall and lanky, he released an exaggerated stretch as he climbed into the taxi that brought me safely into town, where everyone was talking about the Americans who sunk their best boat.

Their beloved schooner.


I am dropping this stone in the lake for you.
The stone I carried back from the other side of the world.
The stone you had no use for.
So I am giving it back to the lake.
Letting it sink to the bottom, so that no other girl can pick it up and carry it back to a man on the other side of the world.
This rock (which I plucked from a glacier in New Zealand) holds layers of dreams that never were.
This dark-charcoal square-like rock, curved like a staircase to the stars
Maps our family.
Our son.
Our stone-home.
Curved like a staircase going nowhere, but to the bottom of this lake, where it will rest easy.
No longer in a holding pattern.
But nestled under soft waves, caressing its very existence.
Happy and calling to be let in.
Sinking down into its cool, deep nest at the bottom of the lake.
Back to it’s home.


The land was covered in a thick blanket of snow. I am walking and can barely lift my feet. Fat snowflakes filter my vision, so I cannot see very far ahead. But I can hear the bus coming. Barreling around the bend. I’m talking on the phone and trying to get out of the road, but I keep sinking in deeper. Until I reach a snow bank. The bus driver sees me and she lets me on. The bus is packed with people. As she rounds a sharp curve the tail-end of the bus swings up into the air, then lands back down, hard.

The bus driver confidently announces,
I’ve been doing this for years.

I feel I have to believe her.


At first only the stairs fell. Then, brick by brick the building crumbled to the ground. I watched it all happen. Slowly, as if the building was carefully laying itself to rest.

Now I am on the roof. I make poems out of skyscrapers, while they come tumbling down.

There were people inside.

I went off in search of my lamp. The one with the red rose on its base. The one from my grandmother. I found it at his house. Only one of the gold petals was missing. This upset me, but I was also happy to have retrieved my light fixture.


We were stuck in an elevator. It was someone’s fault. No one came to get us out. In the car I have an over-sized map. We are discussing the route. The fastest way to get from point A to point B. We are not lost, but we do not know the way, either.


I asked the waiter what was better, Swordfish or the steak? I settled on the Sunfish. While waiting for the food, the cook called me on his cell phone. I’m not sure what he wanted to ask me, but the waiter was furious that he made that call. When the food came, a ruffled fish, eyeballs and all, was placed on a large platter before me. My mother had the same dish.

And, then, the parade started. Or, the practice for the parade, rather. I stood on the sidewalk and watched the band members twist and lift their knees in preparation for their march.