my words haven't died they've just been tossed out with the dirty diapers
Mixed on low for 3-5,
Slid into the oven,
My words, my thinking
High schoolCollege
Now headaches
And a laughing boy named bliss
And my poetry
left behind
years ago.
I realized it's been 10 years since Nelson's writer's Paris. 10 years of this blog!
Hey, wait up--
I used to like the fire poetry made me feel.
the list (where I described how I want my life to be) felt like you.
I wanted 'me the poet' to be my eyes, my brain.
I loved to feel real
in the way I do with a pencil and notebook.
poetry, could we hang out on my kitchen floor, even if we're exhausted, like we hung out eating lunch in school hallways, backs against lockers.
we hung out in my son's hospital, we had to.
will we hang out through deployments and meet again over solitary tea, just me in the evenings, just me and you, and will it feel real and fiery and
like I have new glasses?
Sharper, vivid. will i see blurry things clearly, see clear things that'd gone unnoticed,
and notice the details of this peace lily and my marriage, and the arch of my life
in a way we both want?
give the words life, give me... ?
Poetry is not what I want to fill me up.
I'm hungry for presence, for rich life,
not just the beautiful words describing one
But they do change my present, those beautiful words,
and they're delicious when shared.
I guess I want substance intwined with art
?
