Whither (published)

We stood frozen
under the full October moon.
Our only movement
was the inhale of a Marlboro cigarette.
He walked up and asked for a light.
He looked like James Dean, if James Dean was a tattoo
artist. His eyes looked black under the dim
porch light, he studied the people’s faces
around him. In my little red riding hood costume
his eyes focused in on me. My lungs
grasped for air and I had to catch
my breath. With my eyes fixed
on his face I watched the smoke slide
its way between his lips; chills replaced
chills, I quickly looked away. His right arm
a tattooed skeleton some symbolic meaning
or respected artist gracing his easel.
He reached out to shake my hand I responded
with hesitation. His hands were icy like late fall
by now they would be numb
to the palm. We turned to make our way inside
James Dean stayed behind.
Getting close, he whispered calmly in my ear
‘Whither away so early, Little Red Riding Hood?

11012731_10100749162424683_3187085320523259899_n

This poem was directly written from an experience I had in college during a get together I had with my friends during Halloween. Like many ladies around my age at the time, slutty costumes were all the rage. I chose Little Red Riding Hood mainly because the costume was the least revealing out of the costumes at the time and plus, I always did enjoy her tale. Little did I know I was going to meet a random stranger that night who would seep into my brain and never quite make his way out. While my friends and I were outside smoking cigarettes a mysterious stranger walked up to the stair case and asked for a light. He was a tattoo artist from Reno visiting his brother in Ellensburg and was looking for a party and he happened upon us.

I wrote this poem as an exercise in college but I later submitted it to my University’s literary journal, Manastash, and enough of my peers enjoyed and voted upon it that it would make its way to being published. I am no longer in touch with this Wolf, but I am very glad he entered my life when he did.

Apartment Pantoum

I love to live alone,
My apartment is my sanctuary.
Only my friends know,
I dance around my apartment naked.

My apartment is my sanctuary,
hand painted art plastered across the walls.
I dance around my apartment naked,
Feeling free is the ultimate high.

Hand painted art plastered across the walls,
every nothing means a little something.
Feeling free is the ultimate high,
I can be anyone I want.

Every nothing means a little something,
Only my friends know.
I can be anyone I want,
I love – to live alone.

This poem was actually an exercise in one of my college classes and I would later learn that it is very indicative of my life right now. A Pantoum is a structured poem that has specific rules to be followed. While there are plenty of examples that reflect a better understanding of this form than mine, I certainly hope people who read it are able to recognize it’s pattern.

Dandelion

 

You left me alone that day,

I never understood why.

 

My many delicate hands reached out

but you never saw me.

 

I sat silently in your breath;

why were you never taken?

 

I count my wishes in days

till the weather starts to change.

 

I have watched limbs loosely

float through the air around me.

 

Friends are fleeting,

maybe you know what I mean.

 

You kiss my hands,

I float away.

 

I freckle the sky;

watch you walk away.

 

I have never known such

a breath to fill the life in me.

 

Still feeling the sweet residue of your kiss

on my iridescent fingers

This poem came about from an acquaintance who left my life as quickly as he entered it. But from that encounter came a photo that he took and a subsequent poem that I wrote based upon it. This is the only photo I have posted that has not been taken by me.

 

Little bird (in progress)

 

 The last noise to reverberate off her ear drum

Was the snap, crackle, and pop

Of her neck bone

As it broke against the pristine glass window

 

This is the beginning of a poem inspired by the Iowa Bird of Mouth project. The concept is to write either about the bird of the month or just birds in general. I’m writing about one of my more depressing experiences with birds. Growing up I experienced many bird deaths due to four large windows in my parents living room windows. I intend to expand on this poem once the right words come to me.

Dream catcher 

 

I’m your dream catcher

With the insurmountable weight of your thoughts
Crushing every fiber of my being

You hold me in such high regard
Your solution to everything

But deprivation causes misassociation
Of thoughts and feelings

Awaiting in the depth of your thoughts
Anxiety that has yet to be materialized

Some form of sickness crawls through
Your expanding and contracting veins

I can feel your heartbeat in my body
Pressure that pushes and pulls

Twists and turns
Throughout your hyperbolic vessels

In the clouds

During the summer of 2016 I was fortunate enough to get in touch with a wonderful poet by the name of Jennifer L. Knox. She taught a poetry workshop where I work and this is the result of an assignment  (of sorts) that she gave us. We were to write a persona poem and I wrote from the perspective of my pillow.