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.

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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?

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Haiku

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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