She plays beautifully:
The soft wispy notes
Which glide through the gymnasium air
sufficient to
Dilute the worn audience’s geopolitical pain
I watch through two lenses
My own
And the Father’s
His slim phone framing the
Small red-dressed protege
Immortalizing her just so
Even though she too will soon enough grow to be an audience member
In need of a precocious distraction
From an ever warring world.
Now the tenor of this piece has changed considerably
What began as a lamentation remains a lamentation
But with an ounce more hope than ever there was before
On Saturday I began,
‘Dwindling days
At the fore of the rest of my life’
Oh goodness, I was feeling pensive then wasn’t I?
I perceive I was going to continue to talk about rejection
And how my situation is vastly different than my friends
But then today, funnily enough on a Monday
I got the email
That many of my friends got
One conferring validation and status and all that useless junk
Yet though I had sincerely convinced myself that I did not care about such stuff
When I received my email
I jumped up and down
In a burst of uncontained, uncontrollable excitement
Practically squealing at the thought of, yes, no need to beat around the excruciating bush – an award
So It appears I too, then, am seized, dictated, by the same forces of those around me
Care just the same, about much the same things
Why else would my body ring upon reading those esteemed professors’ words?
alas, It is the greatest, most frustrating paradox
To love and hate the confines of one’s world
The following does not exist:
Monday morning I woke up 20 minutes before I had to be at my desk
This was nothing new; milking mornings is my speciality
But yes, the clock was ticking
I threw together a bag, assembled an outfit
And haphazardly made oatmeal
5 minutes to go I whizzed through the headlines
Orienting myself in the big bad world
But then, against this backdrop of sand slipping through, I quickly switched over to check the market
Not because I care about the market in the least – in fact, I am losing money
But because I wanted to be able to talk to you about it
You, the man with the amazing laugh
Who I will not marry, and have many differences with, but nonetheless think is great
Truly great.
And indeed, not more than an hour later, you asked me
In your larger than life, esoteric
Way
‘How / about/ that / market’
Let me not repeat the rest of the conversation, lest I appear a fool
But yes, 20 minutes, clock ticking, I had to, had to, check that damn site
Should I get so lucky as to speak with you for any period of time
Before the world catches wind of you
And seizes you for itself.
Some divine hand, unaided by rain
Has scattered the green hill which flanks the path
With a sprinkling of poppies
Which cannot but catch my eye
As I overthink my way up that hill, day in and day out
Wild, they whisper
Lean over to each other and gossip, unbothered by my unwavering gaze
Decadent silk orange
In a world full of red
I’m no meaning maker
I just go here.
Window in the wall
Where outside comes in
Where I have sat and stood, collectively, many hours
Watching the green
Willing the earth
The dirt
Inside
Window in the wall
Where I have wept
Longed to be a blue bird or opinionated woodpecker
Unchained by made up things
Sitting among burgundy architecture
Window in the wall
Where I have reminded myself through proximity to the glass
That I am a girl, certainly no machine
Window in the wall
has saved me from myself
And from this ephemeral stream
Which does so much
Oh so much with me.
A week or two ago
I went on a walk of not figuring things out
On this walk of not figuring things out, I figured nothing out
I merely walked
Winding my way down the paved path
And Through the trees bathed in early afternoon sunlight
I collected smiles as I went
Stopping at my favorite waterfall
and turning my music up and down as it suited the moment
What had I to offer, but myself, my pure unabridged self
21 or something like that
What will you do after graduation?
What will you do?
No – not so
Who will I be?
Who will I be?
Secondhand argyle sweater
Bent over
Wood rail
Water bent back in return
sun dialed in
Washing the face
Which is Soft and borne upward
Maybe I search for meaning
Maybe I do not
Secondhand argyle sweater
Bent over
Wood rail
Water bent back in return
sun dialed in
Washing the face
Which is Soft and borne upward
Our lilies bathe in the morning sun
Which flits through the trees
And streams in through our window
Illuminating our lilies in a light so heavenly
So transcendental
That I am rendered transfixed, captivated
By the sight
The way the light follows the curvature of the leaves,
The petals, Which occasionally fall down onto our dining table
The way The scent is somehow more sweet
With the touch of light
As if it aids in the flower’s essence dripping out into the room
Beautiful, beautiful babies
My eyes will remain on them, long after they are gone.
‘My Marigolds died when I wasn’t watching.’
These words came back to me today
As I trudged up the road on my way back from class, exhaling with fabricated control, and sifting through one incoherent thought after another.
My eyes had registered
for the first time
That the dry, crusted grass which normally characterized the hill adjacent to the road
Was in fact, green.
Well I’ll be damned:
The hill turned green when I wasn’t watching.
It was this thought which prompted
In quick succession
The remembrance of the refrain about my dead marigolds
Which my mind ran with
And used as data
To produce the sorry conclusion
That the devastation which paired with my discovery of my marigolds
Had a disgustingly regenerative, hopeful counterpart in the relish I felt
Upon seeing the vital hill
Graceable 