Mid-winter Thoughts

February and my new creative writing class have me writing a lot of poetry. It’s a form I haven’t worked too much in but am slowly starting to love. Learning to write poetry can only be compared to learning to love going to the gym; It happens slowly, but after a while you don’t know where you’d be without it.

Glass houses are easily broken

We wander through a dimly lit

Snowglobe, watching the fat flakes

Fall from the dense sky, as

if shaken from a salt shaker.


In the dark afternoon hour

I reach for your hand as if it

Might steady me, or pin me to

This place, just for a while.

The butterflies are pinned down

in the science building, living forever

encased in their glass home.


I think only of here, and now and

You. And when you look away

I think of nothing.


Past Lives

A forty-five spins like a child’s top

Playing a cycle of Bowie or Pink

Floyd. The air is stale, smoky and hot.

In the dirty mirror I stare and think


About how you can feel nostalgic for

A time you never lived in or a place

You have never been. Is there a word

For this phenomenon I can’t explain?


Maybe I once lived a different life-

As an activist or a grandparent or

A scientologist. Could that be why I

Feel this pull towards the unknown, towards


A life I never lived or perhaps did?

Is there a phrase for this nostalgia?



Scrolling through tinder

wondering why people can’t

just go out on dates.



To be told my body

is mine but my choices are not.

The life of women.



A creative is

someone who can smell color

and sees in flavors.

Note: photos are not mine.



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