Ironic

Today while eating a cherry compote parfait
in front of the windows at work,
I was watching the first rain of the season
drench the parched desert and thinking –
“here is the life this drab landscape needs.”
You died. 
And isn’t that ironic? 
Someone remarking on the beauty to come. 
Someone leaving it behind.

Haiku Saturday

When CP and I were first dating, I used to try and impress him by pointing out constellations in the sky. Orion is the easiest to find and I can usually find it quickly. Then one day I heard this song by Gregory Alan Isakov (it references Orion in one of the lines) and I wanted to capture this idea that regardless of location, I’d find Orion, but I’d only ever find one of you. And so – here we are.

P.S. I am in love with basically any song that Isakov has put out. It’s all poetry and magic.

Arrive

I’ve always found that poetry just sort of “arrives” when it’s ready. Sometimes I’ll be falling asleep, softly slipping into silence, and a line or an image will pop into my head and I’ll have to roll over, find my phone, and write it down. Other times, the whole thing arrives at once. One time, I was on the rower and a whole 8 lines just came spilling forth. I will absolutely massage words, play with structure, consult a thesaurus, craft around an emotion – but typically the original idea does not come from me. It is merely delivered.

Like the below – delivered one morning while driving to work in the desert. I don’t question it – I just write it down.

Dichotomy

Somedays I wake up and everything feels too small. 
I lose a year of life waiting for the coffee machine.
The news grates against the inside of my skull.
The dishes insult me from the sink. 
My body is a mutiny – 
I will not walk the dog. 
I will not eat another bowl of oatmeal.
I will not sit at this desk for one more goddamn minute.
I’ve grown five sizes too big overnight 
and I want to weep at how tight my own skin feels. 

Somedays I wake up and everything feels too big. 
I watch the sun come up;
blush and plum across indigo.
A universe sprouts in the slant of light against my desk. 
My heart is a symphony – 
I am lost in my own breath.
I am lost at how little I know.
I am lost at my own finite amount of time. 
The world has become too full
and I want to rage at how insignificant I feel.

Life’s frustration and it’s fragility 
exist in one heartbeat to the next.

Thursday

What is it about Thursday that is absolute garbage? You’re so close to the end – you’ve endured so much. Blessed weekend is close enough to feel the copious amount of carbs, alcohol, and poor life choices on your face.

But alas, you are not free yet. There are still 10 meetings, 150 Slack messages, two projects, and several awkward emails between you and 48 hours of bliss.

Maybe that’s just me.

They say that sitting will kill you.
I say it’s this desk.
The flowers to my left have
slumped over.
Beautiful. But dying.

Aren’t we all.

Heavy

There are no colors within me
but something blooms.
It has taken root in my gut
and matured in my chest.

Winding it’s way into my limbs,
wrapped around my muscles,
sowing fatigue into the cells.

Slowly –
until
my
whole
anatomy

is heavy.

Crawling up my ribcage
despair sprouts in my lungs,
grows up my throat,
and chokes on the oxygen.

Loneliness has flourished.