Poem.

is this (enough?
is this) worth loving?

hair razored short
and fine as buzzed grass
clear eyes
red and blue
skin bare
bare
bare
stark as midnight
and whiter than pale is pale
flecked and flawed (and fragile)

soft, round body
tearstained down to the tiniest toenail
belly clenched up
twisted up
curled up
in sobs
sobs
sobs

dewdrop eyes
red rimmed and blue
shivery fingertips
grabbing snuggly warm blankets
to keep me here

sweet
sweet
sweet eyes
red around the edges and sparkly blue within
dripping tears like soft piano keys
(silently)
shaking

is this (enough?
is this) worth loving?

big, round bottom
soft shaky hands
tiny short head hairs
long, long legs
red bitten lips
blue weepy eyelashes

is this worth touching
and holding
is this worth breathing into?
(even the tiny short head hairs?)

is this worth:
“damn, i’ve got a great one here”
(even the big, round bottom?)

is this worth
watching sweetly
as you count the stars
sparkling in the baby curls along my neckline?
(even the soft shaky hands?)

is this worth wrapping up
for forever straight
without wanting or tugging or pushing?
(even the long, long legs?)

is this worth sharing a life timeline with?
(even the red bitten lips?)


is this (enough?

is this) worth loving?

(even the blue weepy eyelashes?)

Poems: Two Old and Updated, One New.

#1 (new)

this sweet, tender young thing
what we have
a thin and tenuous line
blushing between us
fromonetoone

this vinegrown flow'ring thing
a hint of a something
an almost yet undefined anything
lying in wait
to flourish
(or not,
we'll see)

yours is a dusted, misty face
and when we walk
away . . . (reluctantly) . . .
i forget its shapes and curves

i only recall the round water hue of your eyes
and vaguely the brightness in them


you come back
and the figure ripples alive:
angles chase down your jaw
slope arcs your nose
a sly sideways creeping smirk twists into your cheek
your eyes alight
our fingers curl up together and snuggle
i rest my head on my free hand.
may i remember more?

(smile to me again?)


#2 (sort of old but updated)

i wish i wrote like e.e. cummings
living life's aliveness nonsensically and ungrammatically with mountains and flowers and the like

i wish i wrote like f. scott fitzgerald
sweetly, satisfyingly, very darkly digging up tragically handsome truths

i wish i wrote like shakespeare
perfect poignant patterns placed profoundly upon his every poised page

i wish i wrote like maya angelou
offering blunt honesty with stark revelations of beauty in open, rough palms sun-dried

i wish i wrote like j.k. rowling
sweeping broad magickscapes intimately along the tender heartlines traced in her rapt readers

i wish i wrote like my father
writing talking reading all that anyone would cry about if they listened hard enough

but,
here
i
am.
and i write
like
me.
(which is...
who?)


#3 (very old but updated)

He doesn't see it.
Did he ever?
That shifting swirl in my eyes
I think it was freedom.

And it's still there

Glimmering in the back of my semigreen gaze
Unbreakably unstealable.

He thought I was his,
But I was never really anybody's
(And never really will be).

That's why it ended:
He thought I was his.

We painted an almostbutnotquite real picture
Of a picture perfect life
(Straight out of a painting).
But the oil slicked away and his eyes had changed color
Turns out I used the wrong paints
And his face looked like someone else's.

And I'm sitting here and I'm starting to realize real sudden:
I'm still free.
I looked in the mirror that morning and saw it
(Again)
And he was gone.

Maybe one faraway day he'll turn around and look backwards
And he'll see it at long last.
And maybe he'll say,
"She was never really mine.
She was always somewhere elsewhere away
Like how her eyes looked.
Like how the sky would look,
If it were semigreen and sparkling.

She was never really mine,
But I guess she was never really anybody's.

And from the way her eyes look,
(That is, if they still look like they used to. But I'll bet that they do.)
She probably never will be."

Poem.

i can feel your deep eyes
and i (don’t) want them back
and i (so) want them back
where have you gone, my love?

i pushed you.

my bare shoulders raise
goosebumps
at your ghost touch
still…
there…

gone.

i can still feel your dark eyes,
my love,
and i (still) want your
hands
hands
hands
like i had them updownaroundme
softly

why did i push you?

i wanted you gone
(i want you gone)
i want you back! my love

i want you back.
so badly i break at the waist
and crack
where have i gone, my love…

in my best days,
i’m here and you’re there and that’s good.
and when i lie down
alone
in the dark
i can feel your deep eyes
and i (don’t) want them back
and i (so) want them back

wanting

i am sitting
unclothed, undone, unpretentious, and filed down
there is nothing here for rescuing
nothing that can prop me up
a hot shower will not wash me away
the way i fool myself it will.
there is dirt under my fingernails
muck in my hair
i walked through my day, world whirring blurredly around me,
and i am left here
wanting.

there are tears inside
welling up behind my fingers and toes
my eyes do not let them out
something died underneath
i cannot see through.
hollowness sneaks into me
piece by piece, tired, disappointed
filling me up with nothing
i am bursting with empty
and i am left here
wanting.

the background fades
wallpaper melts to grey
nothing feeds, nothing grows, nothing alters
stagnant air sticks in my throat
my lungs refill with recycled air i exhaled
there is nothing here for entertaining
the same reasons for the same questions with the same answers
as yesterday.
the world rolls on
as i am left here
wanting.

writer

i wish i wrote like e.e. cummings
showing life's aliveness in nonsense and incorrect grammar

i wish i wrote like f. scott fitzgerald
with something good and dark and tragic to say

i wish i wrote like shakespeare
poignant words perfectly placed on each profound page

i wish i wrote like maya angelou
offering blunt honesty with stark revelations of beauty

i wish i wrote like j.k. rowling
her gorgeous sweeping epic swells so intimately

i wish i wrote like my father
filling his sermons with humorous witty truths that make people cry

but here i am
and i write like me
which is who?