Poems From the Deep

Today is a poetry day! Hooray! But really. I'm not Dr. Seuss or Robert Frost but I have been writing poetry ever since I can remember and today for the first time I would like to share it with you for the first time, unless you are in my close confidence in which case you may have already read them. As for background on my poetic tastes, I am a fan of Shel Silverstein, Emily Dickinson, Robert Burns, TimBurton, Lemony Snicket, Robert Frost, Edgar Allan Poe (of course) and Dr. Seuss (who doesn't).

By the time I got to high school I was only writing poetry when it was assigned and almost quit altogether in college. Last spring I enrolled in a Creative Writing course at Findlay and could not be more thankful I did because wow, did I miss it! Of course, considering I walk around thinking about wording conversations, sayings and excuses I will give my teachers about work that is due, I guess I never quit. I now thoroughly understand though why writers walk around with pen and paper close at hand; inspiration strikes at the strangest times. Not even random times. Inspiration sits and waits until your ultimate moment of inconvenience for the day: crossing the street, trying to sleep or in the middle of a cross country bike ride while pursued by wild dogs . . . whatever the day brings.

I guess what I am dancing around, is here is a glimpse in to my wandering mind at its weakest and strongest moments. Let me know what you think in the comments!

The Eyes In The Corners


Where the walls meet
there are perilous eyes:
two for each corner.
Four pairs waiting,
watching warily over
my naked body.
Their lust forms skanky
mouths that flash
nashing whites.
Where are they?
My eyes quickly stab
from side to side
trying to catch the thieves
who'd so quietly steal me.
I know they see me.
They taste me.
They know my fear
of their finding me
defenseless.



Marriage


Does it really mean more?
Together is together
but there's a certain
separation
until
until what?
I want his mark
his claim on me.
It's already there.
I want mine on him.
Is this not too
already present?
Comfort.
Protection.
Does joining together
for others to see
in a dusty, worn
march
really prove your
hope,
admiration
and recognition?
Or is it just
a grope of beaten fingers
toward
toward what?
I want commitment,
engagement
beyond the title.
In motion.
I have obtained
what I
sought.
Allowing the farce
of society
my only foothold
seems like letting a
wedge drive
between the who's
of who I am.
I want so badly
to use that same
wedge between
what I want
and what I think I want.
A stand
for internal motivation.
Not defiance.
Pure
uncaring.


On the Way Back From Hocking Hills


As I ride, I stare down
a lake.
A pond really.
But in the reflection
of the world
in this small body,
I see the trees and sky are
more alive,
like the water has
stolen
them from the world
and made them brilliant.
I want to
plunge
into its realm:
for it to take me too and
make me glow.
What death
must I endure to be there?
It would start in my lungs but
infect the rest
with soggy beams of radiation
until the still waters
reflect me also.
Shining.


Your Moon


I am the marker
to which love is measured,
but none had ever measured
their love for me.

Alone and too bright
to be welcomed in dark,
every person would rather
close their eyes to me.

One day one man
took to the waves
but I did not know
I had made them for he.

He looked at my face
and did not blink,
for the knowledge of it
was special to he.

Into the sea he rushed,
paddle in hand,
and in the darkness
it was only we.

He opened his mouth
and called me by name
with the heaviest breath
as we became we.

All watched in horror
as we could not stop,
but you have named me your moon
and by no other name will I be.