writing

NaPoWriMo 2019: 30 (End)

Engagement

She holds out her hand, fingers splayed —
Her smile, her eyes, the diamond —
All vying for the brightest object in the room.

You take her hand gingerly, your fingers
Brushing like a breath to edge the band,
Gently, and watch the light dance in its facets.

It’s beautiful, you say.  I’m so happy for you.
Your hands tremble together as you gaze,
Two breathless young things, scrying the future.


I am done — so, so very done — NaPoWriMo.  There will be a refractory period, and then I hope to be updating regularly (though not with this level of frequency again. Not until next yea, at least).

If you are a fan of my writing, consider supporting my efforts by donating a few dollars to my Ko-Fi.

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writing

NaPoWriMo 2019: 29

Flowers

We gather flowers
Wilting buds on dying stems
An ominous sign

Why this for our loves?
I would sooner plant a seed
Watch a new life bloom

I would take your hand
Lead you out into the sun:
“Here is your garden.”


If you are a fan of my writing, consider supporting my efforts by donating a few dollars to my Ko-Fi.

writing

NaPoWriMo 2019: 28

Someday, I Think

Someday, I think, I will forget
The color of your eyes, or the scent
Of your skin on summer nights

Or how your chest rose and fell, the shadows
That pooled like dark water in the webbing
Of your ribcage and the divots
of your collarbone;

Or the hitch in your breathing as you fell
Into fitful sleep, the down-turned bow
Of your lips, or the pale, fluted column
Of your throat;

But when your daughter asks, years from now,
“What was he like?”
I will remember the weight of an arm
Around my hips, and the rhythm of a heartbeat
Against my back;

I will remember the ripple of muscles
Pulling me close in the darkest
Hours of the night, and the brush of lips
Against my ear, half asleep and yet still
Seeking.

When you daughter asks, years from now,
“What was he like?”
If I cannot recall the timber of your voice
Or the color of your eyes
Or the sparkle of your smile,

I can speak of warmth, and of a man
Who kept me close,
And the shiver that ran down my spine
At his touch;

I can speak of a heart whose rhythm
Matched my own,
And arms that held me tight;
A circle unbroken and unending,
Just as he promised.


If you are a fan of my writing, consider supporting my efforts by donating a few dollars to my Ko-Fi.

writing

NaPoWriMo 2019: 27

Poetry

Leave poetry unburdened.
Please.  Just, please.

Let poetry be a refuge from the world,
Let poetry be exempt from the weight
Of expectations, let poetry be.

I wrote some words once, that left
My heart raw, my throat and jaw
Aching.

I wrote some words once that felt
Like glass in my lungs, that rattled
And shook with each breath.

I wrote some words once that shook
My bones, that opened spaces
Inside me that had never before
Felt release.  

I wrote some words once
that I needed to write.
Why that need, why those words,
Why that sweet release,
I don’t know.

It doesn’t matter.

I wrote some words once
That I needed to write,
And it was poetry.


If you are a fan of my writing, consider supporting my efforts by donating a few dollars to my Ko-Fi.

writing

NaPoWriMo 2019: 26

I Am Afraid

I am afraid of failure;
Or, I am afraid of the serendipitousness of success
That raises expectations beyond the threshold of my
Innate talents;
I am afraid of the shame of unmet expectations,
Of raised eyebrows, raised fingers, raised voices,
Of accusations of deception, of intentional fraud,
Of daring to pretend to be anything more than a hack
Who managed to stumble, once, blindly, onto a good idea

I am afraid of silence;
Or, I am afraid of the silent interludes between the adulation
And the accusation,
Those moments of deceptive calm that crackle just beneath
The surface, the electric ripple under the skin as you wait
For the precipitous drop of the other shoe
I am afraid of the not-knowing, of the uncertainty,
Of the indiscernibility of supportive smiles
From the feral threat of bared teeth

I am afraid of taking the risks,
Or, I am afraid of the imbalance of probability
When I have too often seen the best-laid efforts
Waylaid by chance and circumstance
I am afraid of falling victim to hubris, afraid
Of the swell of vertigo, the zero-gravity realization
That the sun is hot, that wax melts,
That man was never meant to have wings

I am afraid of my heart,
Or, I am afraid of it’s insistent wanting
Against all reason or rationale
I am afraid of the constant, nagging ache
When it has been denied what it wants,
And of the painful, thundering fear
When I finally acquiesce

I am afraid of my heart
Or, I am afraid of the desires that rattle
And echo in it’s empty chambers

I am afraid of my heart
And how it beats and beats an beats
Until, one day, it doesn’t


I took Day 26’s prompt and wrote a poem of repetition.  It doesn’t sound much like a poem to me, but it’s probably the most autobiographical thing I’ve written all month.

If you are a fan of my writing, consider supporting my efforts by donating a few dollars to my Ko-Fi.

writing

NaPoWriMo 2019: 25

Summer Drought

We choked on the smell of baking earth,
Kicked clouds of dust up with bare feet
Between the tufts of yellowing grass
Grown sparse and brittle in the heat;

My father knelt with practiced care,
Sweat beading on his furrowed brow,
And plucked tomatoes off the vine
Before they withered on their bough;

That summer saw no drop of rain
To wet our lips, nor slake our thirst–
No showers in the afternoon,
No after-dinner thunder burst.

So we hung back, on worn wood stoops,
Red-faced with sun, and Ice Pop stains,
And cooled ourselves with paper fans,
And prayed the rain would come again.


If you are a fan of my writing, consider supporting my efforts by donating a few dollars to my Ko-Fi.