To Know You

Your eyes sweep impatiently
across my face,
as if you are searching
for me in my features –
hoping that the curve
of my cheek will open a
door into the past, telling
of pain I have endured.
The pink in my lips may
betray me, showing you
all the words I dare not
speak, but wish to hear
out loud. Studying shadows
that linger beneath my
eyes – eyes that are
staring straight back to
you, working tirelessly to
not be found out, by a
swift blink or downward
I feel you not speaking –
fearful, perhaps, of
missing a moment when
the light may fall upon
my lashes, communicating
all the ways the world
has left them damp or
rubbed raw.
I do not ask you what
you are thinking
I too am searching –
waiting. For any sign
that you want me to
know you,
the way you are endeavoring
to know me.
Faces turned inward,
cascades of silence
flow through gazes
speaking volumes of love;
deafeningly loud and impossibly


Soaked in Sorrow

Moments encroach upon us in which the peace slips away. Just as swiftly as the quiet engulfed the senses – like a rush of fresh, crisp air – it escapes our consciousness, leaving behind the stale shadows that follow us around so adamantly.

These bouts of lament are not welcome, yet are ever so comfortable to sit with – like a loyal old friend. As if this is the state in which we were born; aching to the core, soaked in sorrow, drifting in and out of contentment like a dream we are unsure we have woken from.

Moments pass, and we are again consumed by a sense of serenity as the calm returns and the sorrow sleeps for a spell. We can only hope the darkness will keep away for just one moment more than it chose to stay. Standing still, we watch as the moments swirl around us, the coming and going of shadows and peace – passing before our sleepy eyes.

Spoken Melody

I want to take your words
and spin them into
something sublime.
A kind of art that is
so breathtaking
the tourists who walk by
will have to look away.
Music more transcendent
than your favorite song
or mine.
Your words.
They sit on the edge
of my memory,
always so close to falling
from me.
If I don’t make them
into something I can hold,
I fear there will never
again be art or music
worth experiencing.
Oh –
those words of yours.
Even the words that don’t
belong to you
the words of others
whom you admire or despise,
coming from your mouth
they’re all exquisite to me.
To my ears as they fall
from your lips
to my eyes as your teeth
and tongue work together,
making everything else I
have ever thought beautiful
completely insignificant
in comparison.


Do Not

You do not create art
for others.
You do not not create art
because others do not reciprocate your feelings about your art.

My art is mine to hold.
The world is welcome to participate at any time,
to hold it as their own.

I do not love
for others.
I do not not love
because others do not reciprocate my feelings about my love.

You love because it holds you.
I am not welcome to love at any time,
I do love, even when you do not.


Hold Still

I’m tangled in branches, coated in dirt, wrapped in leaves that embrace parts of me I cannot see. The far-off echo of birdsong guides me to clear waters in the dark dusk of early morning; before the sun’s rays have had the chance to dance quietly upon mountain ranges or reflect hues into deep oceans and traveling rivers. I hold still – listening for the wind to carry hope to me from somewhere I have not been.


The Ordinary


A Rekindled Movement

The way the breeze makes the willow dance fills me with a kind of peace I wish I could bottle up for a time I know I’ll need it – when the chaos consumes me and I can’t escape the panic. I don’t know how to hold onto these moments. Perhaps they are not meant to be captured or controlled; the beauty lingering no matter how evanescent.

Somewhere along my journey I misplaced my movement. It left me for a little while, went dormant because I stopped feeding it. I forgot how to care for it, that it needed to be nurtured. That was my fault. Nevertheless it came back to me, waking slowly the more that I took the time to sit down with it and ask what it desired. Are you ready to come out now?  Do you have what it is you once thrived on?  Can you forgive me for allowing you to drift so far away?

I am discovering that despite how much I have changed, the things that once moved me remain recognizable. There’s an uncomfortable adjustment to getting acquainted with yourself. I am reminded of the depth in which I love and feel affected by temporary happiness. I had forgotten how easily I get consumed by the euphoria, mania, fast climb to the top of paradise. I had forgotten this because each time I am met with the fall, spiraling to the bottom of a high, I go looking for it in other things, other people. In myself – in my movement. And so comes the necessity to seek balance – the tightrope widens to make room for exploration. Somewhere new, something unknown, someone magnificent.

In a time when I became settled; unaffected and unintended – my movement slept. I became even. No highs, no lows, no need to find balance or walk a fine line of uncertainty. Without the drive to venture into unchartered lands or weigh out emotions, my world flattened. One note. One tone. Even.

As my movement surfaces, I become aware of the things I know for certain; I want to always climb up, walk across, dive to the bottom and look for doors to new places. To be moved, to be fleeting, to be like a willow dancing in the breeze.