Tag Archives: Literature

Subsistence

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I know what it is to subsist under the weight of darkness.

I know about the exponential effort to drag yourself through the day,
limb by leaded limb.

I know about that magnetic force that paralyzes you,
into the chair in front of your computer screen:
a planned paramnesia,
as your only antidote for this suffering,
when you “can’t make it,” again.

And I know how these very words- “I can’t,”
become a repetitive reel,
ruminating and rising,
ton by laden ton,
they build bars,
around your soul,
you struggle for air,
yet all you find is anger.

But I also know what it is to live.

I know what it is to bathe my spirit in sunlight,
and breath the sweetness of serenity.

I know about allowing oneself to be carried, by wisdom,
gathered of seamless connection,
the common pulse of all living beings,
and the oness that confesses,
that light and darkness are the same.

I have been held by the healing energy,
of an embrace,
washed in the humble purity,
of children’s laughter,
reveled in my own worth,
and in that of every other,
seemingly insignificant life,
of this whimsical world.

I also know enough,
to know that I know less,
than what I don’t,
and that I cannot live in,
perpetual poise,
because to do so,
would be to fall into deception,
and roll again,
under the weight of darkness.

Peace

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Speeding down the coast,
I was gritting my teeth,
Deepened by the hollowness of worry.

With a swoosh my car veered right,
And with it, the flopping alarm,
of a flat tire.

I pulled into a dirt parking lot,
beside the sea,
called and waited to be rescued.

The sun was just drooping below the clouds,
behind the black, baby islands,
with streaks of orange and crimson.

The sound of rounded rocks,
fumbling for the earth,
below the weight of waves.

Simple silhouettes in the background,
gliding gracefully,
before each frothy ocean pulse.

Somehow the worry seeped out,
and lost its weight,
Between stones and water.

Darkening mist,
tickling my nostrils,
soothing my tired chest.

Maine

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The cold granite stones beneath our feet made us taller,maine

Elevating us above the ordinary cobblestones of Post Office Park,

The moon shinning over our pre-pubescent crew of misfits.

One step closer to the sky.

 

It was on nights such as these that I felt my first creative pangs.

They began as fleeting impressions like witnessing a shooting star,

At first you are not sure of having seen one,

yet there is a sensation of awe that lingers.

 

Then came the tremors,

electric and charged,

pushing me to put words to the haunting beauty that surrounded me.

I dramatically tried to verbalize what I was experiencing,

the sound of wet snow falling on the churning winter ocean

or the scent of wild roses in a thick salty fog.

 

By the time the earthquake hit at age 15, I was armed with the art of words.

Poetry became the valley through which I channeled my raw, turbulent emotions.

At the time I did not understand what was happening,

nor the power I had found in my falling;

I would be saved time and time again

by a blue Bic pen and a white wide-ruled notepad.

 

Life would pull me through twists and turns.

Poetry would make me stay the course.

Hardship would not find me helpless.

 

I often think of the young girl gazing at the summer stars over Exchange St.,

Sipping a cappuccino at Java Joe’s,

Dreaming of what the future would offer.

 

Although 6000 miles and a lifetime away,

not much has changed.

I am still dreaming, still longing, still learning

to be, to love, to create…