Cold Feet

She’s not alone
Sufferer of
Swollen, iced-over
Feet, the
Only detriment to
Running outside,
Crunching black converse
On the snow-scattered
Grassy yard. She and
Her sister are allowed
To be children here,
Wondering at an Indiana
Winter’s golden hour
And breathing heavy
Just to see our
Breath.

Walls

I sit in a wood-planked room
With my own poetry
On the wall.
But five years is a long
Time ago. And rhymes lend
Their rhythm and
Also stagnate - distance -
Emotion.
I sit under the dark
Cover of night,
Shielded from the
-17 wind chill by
Walls that have embraced
Me as long as I can
Remember.
I sit in what was my
Grandparent’s house,
What now belongs
Only to my
Grandma, but his
Memories are
Whispered in the wood
Plank creaks, exposed in the
Cork board wall that
No longer stands, but
Still seems to cringe
in its own out-dated shame.

Poetrizin' in Georgia

Rest Area No. 34

Gray fog slumbers,

the folds of her sagging

skin heavy with

sweat settling
over Rest Area No. 34,

etched into Georgia's

lanky frame.

Puddles reflect cool stone

although this winter gloom

of day is warm

and my heart holds

its breath still as

the fog, will

let out a sigh when its

done missing you.

Sifting the Air

Highways and

afternoons that

leave you

sifting the air for

even one streak of sunlight

but the green-gray of forests

and the clear gray of scattered

rain reflect only fog and clouds

and you struggle to

ignore numbed body

parts, the ache of

your hunched-over back,

sore from snaking

northward, bound for

the rural midwest.

Spontaneous Poetry (among other things)

The past few months
have carried with
them burdens,
those regrets and weaknesses and
mistakes and
character flaws,
ignored for so long
beneath a facade of progress.

The past few months
she trained her hardest
lifting weights
exercising limp muscle tissue because
she knew it was time,
time to struggle
in order to
toss broken and mildewed,
torn and stained,
burdens aside.

The past few months
were the truest progress
because that sharp knife of
vulnerability exposes the heart of one
more than meditation,
more than confession,
more than psychosis,
although these methods, in their own way,
were not a far stretch from
her emotional soul.

The past few months
brought poetry and music and love
and living
into a life stagnated by
oppression, depression,
obsession for things that
stifled her from living most freely,
most in the center of her desires,
most centered in God,
in his love and relationship
and stability.


The past few months
were meaningful, glorious, wrenching, torturous
the clearest instance
of fractured radiiance,
the beauty in the broken,
the necessity of feeling to really
live, to really grow.
And she will treasure those moments of
peace, kiss with joy those moments
that taught her.

The past few months,
like a blow to the lungs,
left her breathless, knocked her down
But the very life of God, of restoration,
replaced the stale
air of her regrets.
And she cannot wait to cherish
these next few months...

I'm actually way excited I just wrote that spontaneously.

I'm not sure what happened to hinder my timely update of this blog. Poetic technique exercises came to a near halt and my other classes demanded papers and homework and time-consuming study. But I'm still glad I have this thing. And I have really rather enjoyed this semester. My life has changed so unexpectedly. But I guess that's the joy of living, of letting God urge me where he wishes. I am so thankful for every experience and every struggle. It's been one of the most emotionally draining times in my life. But I like feeling; I like that the ice has melted and that my heart is no longer confined by apathy or bitterness. There are things I could have done better, people I could have loved better. But God is awesome. And my teachers have been awesome. And my classes and friends and boyfriend and family have been intriguing and helpful and loving. And I can't wait to wake up tomorrow because I know it holds promise and hope and a chance for more joy.

Pantoum (Untitled)

An assignment inspired by the Human Rights art exhibit at the Claude Pepper Center:

Fire truck red as the siren's glare
when the eye perceives lime most readily
the patriot's red, we stole with defiance
Why have we always conformed?

Orange is the shade of humid air
fire truck red as the siren's glare
orange is the shade of stagnant sand
when the eye perceives lime most readily

Humans marching toward orange
orange is the shade of humid air
drawn by the pheromones of a cosmic queen
orange is the shade of stagnant sand

Our minds are molded, constrained before me know
humans marching toward orange
and blister-footed children cry out
drawn by the pheromones of a cosmic queen

And smooth-skinned boys are camouflaged as men
our minds are molded, constrained before we know
red eyes, red blood, Red Flag
and blister-footed children cry out

And smooth-skinned boys are camouflaged as men
the patriot's red, we stole with defiance
and blister-footed children cry out
Fire truck red as a siren's glare.

I'm thankful for...

The clear blue of the Tallahassee sky.
A breezy, 65 degrees.
FSU maintenance staff who revel in what they understand as progress in American politics.
Starbucks sweetened, iced coffee (it's delicious; you should try it).
Letting go of petty regrets. All regrets are kind of petty in the long run.
Leftovers from TGI Fridays.
The way the sun shines through my movie posters plastered to Rogers' giant windows.
Poetry.
The ability to pray.
My yellow keds.

"O send out your light and your truth; let them lead me; let them bring me to your holy hill and to your dwelling. Then I will go to the altar of God, to God my exceeding joy; and I will praise you with the harp, O God, my God. Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my help and my God." - Psalm 43:3-5

Butterfly

The delicate
hollows of her skeleton
exhale an untainted beauty
as this southern cold front
traces ripples onto
spotted wings;
she obeys her fate,
to direct eyes wearied by
the bloodshot of modern monotony
to the perfect imperfection of
scented flowers,
but in the flurry of her anxious
dance
she takes the magic
she possesses, she touches,
for granted.