Little Bird Poetry

How odd is it, to be haunted by someone who is still alive. How odd it is, even more so, to be haunted by versions of myself, whom of which some days, does not feel like to even still be alive. I reach, sometimes, to check my own pulse in some type of repetitive ritual in order to ensure that my heart, in fact still beats, even if it is without cause. I ponder purpose, quite frequently in my own musings and downward spirals, yet an epiphany of purpose has yet to strike.  Time passes yet somedays I feel like I remain rooted in place. Watching people pass by on their way to the next phase of their lives.  I'm so focused in on it that I feel like I miss my own growth that seemingly happens so slowly, it is hardly noticeable to the naked eye.  What is it, the force that causes the hands of time to march forward each hour, minute, second? What gives it the strength to move even while I can hardly find it in myself to tick on? Why watch when my own hands seem to just shake inst...

 Where am I now? A cross road of the multiple past versions of myself watching me from behind, the plethora of possibilities watching me from the front, every which way there are eyes tracking each step forward I take with a bated breath, unsure whether or not they should call after me or coax me forward, unsure of which way I should wander or run full speed towards, not to wander off and be lost, or run forward with the passion of lovers again reunited, where am I now? Within the realm of every possibility that really could take me every which way. Which way am I supposed to go?  I ask myself that frequently. As I am finally at a point in which everything is directly within my reach.  Not for the fear of failure, but the curiosity of what is to come. I have been the fool to dance in the court of men The servant washing the feet of my fellow man I have been the woman in black called to carry off the dead from the lives of others The trusted therapist for those who have no...

 I had a dream The other night You sat across from me The room was white Sterile in a way The look you gave me was one I had all but forgotten Kindness sat in the crinkles of your eyes Just like the way you used to smile when your told me you loved me It sucked the pain right out of my chest The warmth thawed the parts I had all but forgotten  “I’m sorry” Was the only thing I could let escape me Popping the cork from the top of the bottle of all the words I’d forgotten I wanted to say “I know”  The words echoed in the seemingly infinite space We sat for a moment Just like we once did In the space between affections exchanged “You know I loved you more than I could ever say”  The words cut through my mouth Threatening to have blood slip its way between the space where my teeth don’t quite meet “I know, I always did” Was the response that you gave me Your face depicting something I couldn’t quite distinguish “It’s ok.”  The phrase jerks me awake Leaving me to wond...

 Watching the train Moving its way through the mist The sun barely up  To just wake the dew on the grass I take a deep breath Of the spring air Mixed with the scent of damp clay I close my eyes Just for a moment Letting the rumble sync with the beating of my heart The sky is grey In a way that calms the soul  Familiarity brings peace  To my own inner storm 

 Is it too much To want to breathe the air inside your lungs  To have the over bearing desire to want to place myself under your skin Like an itch you can’t scratch Is it too much To want to hold the sides of your face Look into your eyes and see the time gone by reflected in one And the time I’ve missed in the other Is it too much To look back and want to squeeze the life from the memories we share Not through a text But to go back and actually be there? Is it too much To want to go back  And erase the earth that I’ve left scorched To be seated Watching the sunset from the porch Sitting amongst the slivers of the summer air  What I’d give sometimes to go back and be there What is it  That I’m supposed to do Is it too much To be so torn about these feelings for you?

 The Deep South, hot, humid and unforgiving, You can see it etched in the faces of those born here, In the face of the farmer, who worked beneath his father and the one before, In the face of the pastor, proclaiming his faith and preaching it out upon his weary congregation, In the face of the grocery store clerk, emptying buggies, greeting each person they meet, In the face of the hardened labor hand, working hard so the mother of his children at home doesn't have to, I see it in myself, In every mirror that hangs in these halls, The lines etched in the same places,  Those of worry, those of fear, those of disparity,  Those of laughter shared, smiles that never quite faded,  This land is tough, so is this town, Each and every one that comes and goes, Yet, it feels so foreign to me. My hands are no longer calloused and rough, The skin on my back has softened, My skin glows white like the moon, Instead of reflecting a tan from the hot summer sun, I am from this red cl...

 I stare down the same oak tree that has been imprinted on my earliest memories, I've watched it through the seasons, Lush and green, Barren and brown with cold wind moving it's branches, I have seen many a "Car for Sale by Owner" parked in the shade, Lemonade stands, Yard sales, Even trucks with the bed down, holding a litter of puppies, "free to a good home", Men, women, children, Hundreds of faces, People who make up the blood and backbone of this tiny town, All have come together beneath this tree, I see it everyday now, Like a checkpoint, A save, I've made it far enough to see this tree, That has watched three generations of my family drive by, I wonder if any other of them notice it, This old oak seated by the intersection of railway and roadway, Just down the road, From my grandparent's home, The one where my aunts grew up, Where my father picked up my mother for their first date, Right down the road from the first double wide that became the ...