Poetry and ramblings..

I was digging through a lot of writing files and found some things I had written in the past year..some thoughts..some rambles..some bullshit poetry:

Last night,
Staring out the car window,
Suddenly my shoes were gone and I was sitting in my thick wool socks on the sofa.
Reminds me of when we were time travelers
Painting your attic.

The rain falls like rockets to the moon but in reverse because they are traveling towards the earth. But they imprint in the puddles like a finger pressed in fresh clay…but instead the puddle absorbs them and they are no longer visible. Just as you left tiny imprints, tiny dents on my heart and being, but this new me, this new healing has absorbed them and they are no more.

This next one is words from you to me. That’s why I can’t relate to it as much as the others. I understand now. But I wish it were really you saying those words. Instead in my mind there is just a dust bunny where your words should be. Where you should be saying these things to me. How do I collect these cobwebs and dispose of the rotten fruit? It reeks of things past and memories I shouldn’t dwell on. If I clean up the mess that encompasses that space, then will there be room for your apology?

And you just squeeze your temples and then release and breathe like giving birth to thoughts you want to get rid of and release..or perhaps thoughts that are now positive and you want to birth them out so you can be born anew. Or squeezing your eyes shut like wringing out a sponge of it’s filth.

I love mining up memories and digging my shovel in places forgotten where the dust hasn’t yet been brushed off.

A Silly Babbling Journey

I wrote these words...kind of at random at they spewed out of my mind..flowing from my stream of consciousness..some of them kind of make sense..some of it isn't very pretty..most are based off emotion:

Fingers plucking on tiny strings made of silver..wrapped in gold..long sharp knife-like fingernails..dancing amongst the strings like spiders..tiny spiders moving in circles..producing sounds like raindrops falling into puddles.

Stone cold I lie..like a princess on her tombstone..fresh pearl skin kissed by the dew.

Footsteps amongst the soft green moss and the breeze of an early autumn wind. Would you stay?

Trumpets don’t look like trumpets to me..they sound like knives jabbing at the air.

You’re so very sad..and we were so very sad..we were time travelers and stone skippers amongst the fuzz of everything.

I’m sorry you couldn’t see it. I feel like I failed you and you still remain in a hole of darkness..with no nails strong enough to scrape yourself out or climb..instead..your nails are dull and they only push the dirt down the sides of the hole..covering and burying you. Perhaps once you’re buried..you will sprout like a seed once the rains come..and you will be born anew..a second chance..you will find hope.

Early Morning

Oh Hallo mornin'. I've missed you since I've been nocturnal.

Things that are unusual are beautiful. Sickly things are beautiful. People who look like spiders with their bony figures are beautiful. I like how the light dances on their bones and webs of skin when it's black and white. Lively, sunshiney things are beautiful. Golds and yellows but not like mcdonald's yellow. Budding greens and fresh cut fields. I forget what it feels like to drift off into sleep without force.

This lady bug needs to calm down. He's in love with the light in my room.

I want a cottage in the woods surrounded by wildflowers. I'd wake up and have morning tea with the sunshine and the sparrows.

An old Autumn poem of mine

Footsteps down a path of burnt grass,
From the fires that spread from the trees all ablaze.
Sometimes I wonder,
Beyond all the oranges, yellows, and reds,
It it might, by chance,
Catch a glimpse of white or blue.
But it's cold, yet crisp,
Crunchy and thick and deep.
Wool sweaters and leather boots,
Push away rainbow ashes.
It's visually burning but cold and fresh.
They say it's all dying.
I think it's beautiful.
It's like everything is getting ready for a costume party.
All the foliage are cloaking themselves in colors,
Perhaps just reflecting or absorbing different parts of the spectrum.
They dress up their xylem and phloem with carotenoids.
And then spritz a bit of cinnamon and musk.
Then, when the breeze comes to take them all away,
They take wing, and dance.




This is a tiny woodland frog I found last year.