I found an old hard drive and inside was a treasure trove of poems I wrote in 2008 (or, at least I last opened the doc in ‘08, eep)! This is back when I still used double spaces after every sentence and had an AOL account. Crazy how time flies. So here’s what little me thought poetry was all about.
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Future, Meet Past
The curves of her hips
Seduce the shadows.
That little red dress
Burns brightly,
pain and passion
Reflected in their eyes.
The girl with the broken wing
Doesn’t stop.
Can’t stop.
for anyone
let alone herself.
If I were stronger,
If she was older.
Maybe I could fix it,
The edges,
Already coming undone.
Time is fickle,
And I can’t reweave the tapestry
Once Fate has decreed it
just so
That ring on my fourth finger
Sprouts a pale hand.
It ticks off the hours:
Left or right?
In or out?
Of synch with her fantasy.
What promises did I make
That led me here?
A glass of white wine,
The ghost of Alice,
How could I forget?
A past so lonely.
She doesn’t dance to a beat;
She sways to their whims,
Caught up in the breeze,
Her eyes searching for mine.
I hide in the folds
of time,
Aching to take her hand
just this once.
Those warm summer tears, waiting.
Wiped clean
Without
the tang of electricity,
Without
the roar of swift punishment,
A would-be aloe to festering burns.
The phantoms of
Acceptance,
Mired deep behind
All closed doors.
Just beyond her frantic reach,
She turns to me.
The newscaster’s lipstick says it all.
The letters on the table
forecast failure
in red ink.
People punctuate
their lives with private
Versions of hell,
And
she smiles…
*shrug
Not everyone can break down and cry.
She doesn’t trust.
In
The principle of faith,
The maxim of good,
Hearts intertwined,
When I trace figure eights,
Just below the sun
Lesser stars
Glide through
Murky waters,
And the flecks of gold
In her eyes
Watch them go.
Watch her go,
Languid—
They say,
“Nothing.”
Now she
Tilts her face upward.
A silent prayer
To potential outcomes,
To that red balloon,
To green numbers in the dark,
To me.
Hearts beat blood, not love.
Minds break easier than
The bodies that cradle them.
When does the future meet the past
And shudder?
The girl
The dance
The dress,
The red dress,
crumples,
To the floor.
All alone
She needs something
No, some
one
to believe in.
Believe in me.
Photo Credit: Rene Böhmer