Category Archives: Poetry

Creative pieces I write–constructive feedback is much appreciated!

Albums of Our Lives

Think back to the last time you were happy. And I mean really happy, like cares-in-wind, so-perfect-you-could-stay-this-way-forever-happy, so content you can feel it from the tips of your toes to the top of your head. Touch that moment with your mind, feel its edges, revel in the way it makes you breathe easier if only for a moment. Think about what made that moment so perfect.

Knee Deep, Zac Brown Band (Ft. Jimmy Buffett)

It was Summer 2014 and I was at a friends cabin in the Poconos. There were spiked Arnold palmers, a dock on the lake, beautiful sunny weather and two of my best friends. We listened to country music the whole weekend, spent our days down at the lake jumping into the water, floating around on inner tubes, talking about everything and nothing, eating sandwiches and getting sunburnt. It was my perfect break from the real world. I have never had so much fun or felt so comfortable in a bikini. There was so much laughter my abs hurt for days after and I swear my hair was two shades lighter from all the sun. Something about big, open fields, being real with my best friends and that cool blue water filled a part of me that had been dry and dusty for a long time. 

Hold on to your happiness. Feel the edges like the worn down cover of your favorite book; lean in and remember the way it smells in the summer when the wind blows the water off the lake after a storm; close your eyes and let the wind run its fingers through your hair again. Don’t you dare forget the way the earth feels between your toes or the way the full moon tilts its head at midnight. Breathe it in, breathe it out. Put it in your pocket and don’t forget.

I think a lot about that moment when I’m feeling stressed or melancholy. Just the idea that I was happy once gives me hope that I will be happy like that again. Sometimes I think moments like that are the reason I don’t just shrivel up and blow away–like maybe they are my never-ending well of goodness that I can draw on during times of drought. During times of despair. During times of monotony. Tick tock tick tock tick tock.

Hold on to your happiness, draw from that well.

Put the world away for a minute, and let the sunshine wash your blues away.

Knee Deep, Zac Brown Band (Ft. Jimmy Buffett)

When She Had You

The wind was never strong enough

to knock her down,

like thunder in a storm

She balanced between the precipice,

the moment before the rain,

when she had you.

The night rolled in with the cold,

crisp and dark, a good bottle of red.

She let the evening take her in its arms

and spin and spin and spin

until she couldn’t remember if she was a star

or the milky way;

either way she knew she wasn’t lonely

anymore—her body drifting and warm,

the smell after it rains. And it wasn’t raining,

just dark and different,

the stars still there, the moon still up.

The same as when she had you.

Tornado in My Bath

There was a tornado in my bath today.

It flipped the room upside down

and shook it until the toilet was gone

and then the sink, the towels, the soap

falling into the sky one by one

my little cooing doves

and only walls remained.

It moved to our bedroom and stole my mother’s

hairpiece before turning to snatch the TV

dragging the black licorice cord along the side of the wall

it seized my sister’s illegal marijuana

and my brother’s brand new paint set

and my favorite AC/DC poster.

It swiveled through the hallway

down the stairs up the stairs

in the crawl-space behind the door

it went under the bed in the covers

it swept the kitchen clean

and came back

looking for water to turn

and turn and turn but there was none.

You and The Mountain

I search for you on the wind

the wind shimmering up the west peak

the mountain exhales snow in bursts of white

until I stand alone waiting for the avalanche

he brushes my cheek and it’s ice

I am not standing there anymore

You are the avalanche

the snow the mountain breathes

in and I fall into your

sharp ice embrace

until all that is left of me is you

and the mountain breathes


Aurora Borealis

I want to paint you a picture,

a picture of a woman,

a woman who reached for the Northern Lights

and accidentally became them.

She discarded her dust-ridden dregs

with their old habits and rags,

she ripped out pages that stank of resentment

and released empty anger that lingered

on the edges. She culled the overripe

and cut down the decayed, an emancipation of self.

The freedom was sweet and juicy as she bit into it,

the nectar spilling down her chin onto the freshly turned soil.

Her manumission was an amalgamation

of a misguided horoscope and a spark,

a light that shot into the air

and rained down thunder and ice.

She raised her eyes to the heavens and they stared back

in wonder at the way she moved,

a woman wooed by wanderlust.

Bright in the stark contrast of the night,

they mistook her for a shooting star

and plucked her from the earth,

up up up, a dance of soul to sky

an emancipation of self,

legs outstretched with pointed toes

she rose into the air, hair caught up

in the wind, mouth captured in a kiss with the moon

and the Spirits of the North rejoiced

with fire and drums, flames casting her body

into shadow, a silhouette against the darkness

she spun with the heavens, flickering into transparency.

She was a blood diamond and a dream,

the mythology of nations. Yellow and gold

she shone over high hills and sunken valleys,

a whisper of strength in the night,

that ancient promise of redemption.


The crown was lead in your hands

its gold melting into sand that slipped through the cracks

of your petrified heart onto mine,

a lost child, terrified in the desert.

Open wounds and old sores,

I used my pain to paint dark ink across the page,

a silent plea for strength I thought I had

when the night came to take me away;

But candles go out and fire burns to ash,

and my strength is earned.

I am the phoenix from your fairy tales,

but I do not rise for you,

Gold and red, lightening and fire,

I am sharp and unforgiving,

the final blood diamond

alighting upon your brow.

Waiting for the Sky

She sits at their roots


for the sky to call her beautiful

her eyes hunting

for sunlight between

branches that hide the moon

as the wind winds its fingers

through her hair, pushing strands across her

skin in the pale glow

of a trembling forest

and she stands when the

oak trees begin to hum

a deep throaty sound

that envelops her in whispered dreams

of green grass and a white stag

leaving an ache in her bones

and water in her veins

it’s surface pulsating

with the sound and she can hardly bear

the weight of it, its tempo rising

louder and louder until she takes their

branches in her hands to dance

and they step, twirling with the rise

and falls of yesterdays and tomorrows

through the luminosity of stars

in the blaze of dawn, faster and faster

she is nothing but dust and golden cobwebs

their bodies bright with lightening and desire

and her hair is fire and her eyes rubies

the motions of her arms

fluid and diamond in the dark

the thrum of oak and pine

spinning tales of redemption and ruin

until all that is left

is ethereal and it will be enough.

It is