Posts tagged #Writing

fluent (adj).


I try to write and can’t, it’s stuck
below the rock in my stomach and
the pebbles that line my throat and
the sand that fills my head.

I look out to the trees for some kind of truth.
I look out to my neighbours walking and wonder
if they have more answers than I do.
I look down into my coffee cup and appreciate
its loyalty and powers. I look to my mother
and ask if I’m doing the right thing. I look to
my hands and ask them to write anyway.

incoherent (adj).


This isn’t coming naturally, these words,
dusted off and dirty
my vision, blurred and averted
my heart, haggard and tired. 

This doesn’t feel brave, this work
of feeling, this work of
making sense of the world through
line and lyric, this work of
paying attention. 

The cab driver tells me
I wish I could write, you guys
get to be the narrators
of our times.

I should invite him in to see
the desk that greets me with
pages full of nonsense and
this mind full of sand, I could
pour us some scotch and we
could have a good laugh
at what the history books
will say next.

anticipate (v).

Would it have hurt less
if I hadn't seen it coming
like a train sideswiping
and with no time to brace?

I saw you coming
like a heavy august storm -
an army of bouldering clouds advancing
steady towards the harbour

and still
I stood
in sand.

I did not find shelter
I did not lock windows or doors
I did not go to the storehouse
I did not, as you asked, 
mind mast and anchor
and keep myself at shore. 

Posted on May 6, 2017 and filed under the word project-.

cache (n).

how strange that
we run out of
kisses for someone's
face, shoulders, hands
and without knowing
when it will go from
this thing we do -
to place our lips
on each other's skin -
to this thing that
we think about
alone at night.

Sometimes I run my fingers
over the place on my wrist
you liked to kiss in the
quiet moments like after
dinner or when I asked you
a question that made you
feel too much;
here where there is
a river of veins
blue from the blood
held inside. 

sprawl (v).


I don't want to unravel, only unfold.
Open and
open again, becoming softer and expanding without strain, without strife or struggle.

I want to be the letter 
you smooth out with your hands
the paper soft with wear, the words that were sent and chosen with delicate, nervous care. 

I want to be someday mostly like spring
the way she whispers the earth awake 
flowers and trees like toddlers drowsy and lazy after their naps.

I want always to unfold
the way I unfold when we tangle up at the end of the day
the way your stories do, winding softly to reveal some new corner of you
the way we didn't think twice when we set off onto this open sea.