This is a poem about my mama who is beautiful and talented and smart and determined and totally ridiculous.❤ Happy Mother’s Day!!
She is powerful.
She might not look it at first.
Like her daughters
she is many smiles
and fluttered laughter.
It is hidden,
saved for when it’s needed.
She is like the ark –
nice to have around,
undervalued til the flood hits.
Her daughters are
bundles of white-hot emotion
that leap out like
and she weathers their tempest
till the sea calms,
a stranded sailor or two.
She is balance,
and sweetened fibs,
the first to crack a joke
and the first to crack at the task at hand.
She is assertiveness
she was not born to,
that had to be melted down
and hardened again
like steel in the blacksmith’s fire.
She is prepared with questions
but still often taken by surprise.
She is adventure
close to home,
journeys found in the backyard.
She is finding the beauty in something small,
she is sentimentality,
she is framed second-grade paintings on the mantel
but also knowing when it’s time to throw
an old sketch away.
She is holding on and letting go.
She is beautiful,
the sort of slow-blossoming beauty
like coal becoming diamond,
like a bird that never truly sees
the vibrancy of its own wings.
And she is laughter,
she is humor,
she is finding the smile in something so mundane
anyone else might have passed that pebble on the road
but she had to stop and kick it
and her daughters must now do the same.
Quick to feel and sometimes bubble over
but it’s tempered by
and that ever-elusive ability
to tell someone “I’m sorry.”
She is contradiction
and sliding scales,
she is rock and water,
she is Dao and academia,
she is kaleidoscope emotion
For the past month I’ve sort a little bit occasionally been trying to pick up guitar and started posting some of my songs. They’re all really, really basic but it’s so much fun to actually be able to play these pieces of music that I sing all the time.❤ This is me singing/playing Moon River if you want to check it out!
There’s nothing worse than poetry that tries too hard.
How pretentious is that of me to say?
Like pretentious wrapped in pretension,
but there’s nothing worse than
“I’m a jackrabbit cartwheeling on a unicycle into
high speed tentacular futuristic pluralism –”
Slow down there, bud.
Words are pretty for the sound of them
lovely for the truth of them
pleasant for the way they roll from
one consonant to another
but they are not pretty for their crowded
or their race-to-the-finish
or their “how far away from meaning can this
cluster of syllables be”
“can I stretch this string of gum until it breaks”
Stop forcing it so much.
The law of matter states you cannot make something out of nothing
and you cannot pull what is poetry from thin air.
It is translation, transmutation,
it has to come from somewhere
that is sliver-true.
You take what you love
and you dance around it
in frenzied circles
till like hitting a bell
you finally strike at something
resonant and pure.
Your words are razor edges
but I take them like they’re rose petals you scattered on my bed.
We’ve all got our tricks for getting the blood stains out.
Happy is a full-time labor and sometimes that means
gripping thistle by its thorns
and pretending it is dahlias.
A job is the thing you do to get paid
but work is the thing you put your sweat into
and steady your breath for
and clean up piles you are scared to touch for
because once you start you cannot stop
you do not know how to break things into pieces.
You do not know that the path is made of stepping stones.
While you’re busy on-the-clock you are
collecting dimes measured in minutes
but you are also working double-shift
as you whip your tired animal
who struggles with his plow towards
Do not mistake the flower boxes by the window
for the warmth of the kitchen;
what is manicured outside
is sometimes ravaged within.
I am fortress-strong.
I am Troy.
I can stave off your hoplites for years on end,
hundreds need be;
it’s the things that get inside
that will tear me down.
Sometimes I feel like I’m
all glitter and sparkle
and I’m just slowly absorbing
all the little details of the people around me.
Sit next to them too long and their
old family sayings or
the way they toss their hair or
the way they lower their voices telling a joke or
the way they cling to the ground with their toes like it all might fall away
becomes imprinted on my body
like a stamp,
a permanent addition to my reflection like
a freckle or a bruise.
My dress is full-length mirrors
or maybe it’s jell-o that
shakes and jiggles but
when people touch it with their fingers
they leave little bumps and prints
that won’t go away.
I’m a scrapbook collecting up
all the little pieces of the people
that have come and gone;
their ticket stubs, lipstick stains,
empty coffee cups, beer bottle caps.
You can read me like
the story of them,
weaker where the presence
of a high school friend has faded,
stronger when my sister visits for the weekend or
I spend the day in the city with
an old college classmate
I’m just all bundled-up
flounder bedding itself into the scrabble of your ocean floor.
I’m sun bouncing back
because I can’t resist
trying out your light.
I’m diagnosed with a disease
that lets your personality leap like virus
and it clings to my cells
and becomes just another little piece of me
like wood splinters
breaking off in your skin.
just when I feel I’ve finally made a home of my own body,
I meet someone so brilliant-blinding I think
“this is who I need to be.”
And maybe that’s okay,
maybe it’s all right I’m always changing
and shedding loose skin,
trying on new selves like clothes
to find out which fits best.
My first year of college I exchanged
but now it’s just pieces;
bangles over beads,
boots instead of sandals,
and maybe it’s okay
that I’ll never be quite comfortable
in my metaphorical wardrobe,
that I’m always searching the racks
for something better,
something tighter or looser
or bolder or camouflage.
I’ve worn skeptic and cynic
and while they cloaked me confidence
maybe it’s time I open back up.
I’ve tried tragic, victim, damsel,
they made me feel poetic
maybe it’s time I try strong.
I’ve tried hardened, callous, stone
because I thought
the people who’ve hurt me
should get hurt back;
but now I think forgiveness
is the jumpsuit
waiting in my shopping cart,
the one I’ve been too scared to buy
because it’s such a hard
ensemble to pull off.
I want to feel beautiful no matter what I’m wearing,
but I know some colors won’t complement my skin
and some styles won’t show off
the favorite pieces of my being I want to be seen
like my shoulder tattoo
and my bottomless laughter
and my capacity to be kind
which could use a good flexing
because I’ve been keeping it dormant
since I mistook it for a weakness.
Maybe it’s okay to have chameleon skin.
Maybe shape-shifter is fine.
Maybe to take a few steps back –
try on childhood skorts
or mom’s old saddle shoes –
as long as it’s followed by a few
sturdy leaps forward.
Maybe change is okay,
and progression is key,
and we all outgrow
favorite sweaters we’ve worn holes through
and sometimes it’s all right to feel
a little out of place
or just a little bit imperfect
because what knocks us off-balance
is what keeps us grasping out for something more.