bindweed

love,

(addiction)

like a morning glory

(bindweed)

blooms white with sun

in the soft heart,

telling you it’s okay,

(because it’s love)

come closer,

and strangles out

the good that had grown there

I am

I am shades of violet

white moth twirling through sunlit dust

wings flittering through window galaxies

I am the number 15, 17, 30

a palm tree rooted in memories

sunblock scented and ocean dreaming

I am a tinkling wind chime 

in a desert of bones

a hummingbird fat on sugar water

Kai

have you ever looked at a picture of someone

you knew you could never have

of someone you’ve spoken to once or twice

of someone who etched his memory inside you

of someone whose fingers maybe grazed your palm

that’s kai

he’s always knocking

but when you open the door

only the feathers of his wings

land in your hands

grab him when you can

Sylvia

I wish I could've been there for her.

Sat at the kitchen table, chatted over mugs of coffee.

I would've said, "Take a vacation. I'll watch the baby."

And she would've taken the vacation and come back all refreshed and ready for a new chapter in her life.

She would've dumped ol' what's his name.

Maybe she wouldn't have written as much poetry because of the disappearing sadness, but maybe she would have.

We'll never know.

A poem I wrote for her in college:

You were a daring beauty
whose words ached
liked old bones.
No one could take the pain
so they dismissed you
with blank faces
and sticks and stones.
And you crawled into
the dark places
of your heart
where no one lived.
Nothing was said,
but silence was dead-
like you.

Lightning Bug (an old poem)

photo from we heart it

June midnight
with a pale moon.
The pink oleanders
tap outside my window,
cast shadows in the room.
I lie in bed,
wonder if my eyes will ever close
when suddenly,
a flash of light darts across the sky.
Only from the corner of my eye
do I glimpse the quick glow
of something outside my window.

What could it be?

When I look closer I find
that it's not the sky alive with light,
but the oleanders housing little stars.
Fireflies twinkling,
on
and
off
A still, dark sanctuary
blooming in luminosity.

Who Is Your Truth?

She is natural, naked,
long tangled hair,
perfectly at ease in her body.
She has a pen in her hand.
Her legs and feet are strong.
Her heart big and delicate.
She doesn't care that she is naked
or that she may never see people again.
No need for makeup or clothes.
Just sunshine, flowers, good fruit,
and the words in her heart.

love letter

I left my heart in California.

It is buried there,

beneath tree roots and roses.

It blooms in spring

with cala lilies and jacaranda trees.

Butterflies swagger on its petals,

and the sea salt smooths the rough edges.

In winter, my heart is devoured

by the vampire boys and boys with broken wings,

bloodhounds with sandpaper veins who

stalk blood roses in the Hollywood hills.

It is all red flesh and weak,

but the seeds get stomped

back into the ground

by girls in combat boots and pink dresses.

My heart seeks me in all seasons

knowing that a small cloud hangs

where my heart used to be.

A cloud dripping dew

to the rest of me,

wondering if a new heart will grow.

Metamorphosis (Life of a Girl)

I. Cocoon
We struggle in the dark places.
Bones break.
Wings form underneath the skin,
rip through the back.
We transform in the warmth
of a folded leaf -
always in agony,
always quiet.

II. Transition
A tiny light grows.
The dark gives way to the sun
and the wings unfold -
still weak,
still unsure.
Then we move in a new way.
Once we crawled on our bellies,
now we fly above the flowers.

III. Weathered
Our wings are strong for a long time,
but the days are stronger.
We live and let go
and go back to that place of quiet darkness,
only this time,
not in agony.
The wings fold in -
a cocoon of color,
and that is where we say
goodbye.

Moon Flower

Photo by: Coop Photography

there is an orange moon
after sunset -
the kind that hangs heavy
in the sky -
low and blossoming
so close
you want to swallow it

summer day

summer day
a blanket of blossoms

rest your tired wings beneath this tree
blooming soft violet

all the worries in your palms
are sent into the wind

your limbs rest easy
in these pools of sun

let's sit among the dandelions
make wishes to the sky

if you love something...

image via we heart it

A bird came to me
wounded,
its wings open and tender,
its heart beating fast
from falling.

So I cared for the bird
for many days,
wrapped its wings,
held it in my hands.

Until one day
it wanted to fly away.
And I cried and cried
because I had grown
to love the bird,
but it had healed
and didn’t need me anymore.

So I held it close,
one more time,
to hear its wings
against my heart.
Then I set it free,
hoping that someday
it would come back to me.

poem about no one

we ♥ it

she is a lotus
blooming in my throat
stretching and wrapping her roots
around my chakras
she is chamomile on my tongue
strawberry on my lips
this girl is the earth
pulling my feet down
and the sun light
that sinks into me
like teeth in the morning

Wishes and Star Prayers

"Wish on everything. Pink cars are good, especially old ones. And stars of course, first stars and shooting stars. Planes will do if they are the first light in the sky and look like stars. Wish in tunnels, holding your breath and lifting your feet off the ground. Birthday candles. Baby teeth."





"Here you go on this long long dream. Don't even try to wake up. Just let it go on until it is over. You will learn many things. Just relax and observe because there is pain and that's it mostly and you aren't going to be able to escape no matter what. Eventually it will all be over anyway. Good luck."

~ Quotes by Francesca Lia Block
~Wish photo by Beth Retro

*Star Prayer* (a lil poem by me)

Oh, stars
shouting from the sky-
your constellations become dreams
of spoons and bears and fiery lions.
Let them be secrets
you whisper only to me.
Let the moon gather my wishes
and disperse them among you,
and when you die, let your
light rest in the palm of my hand,
that I may find my way
in darkness.

winter winter go away

twentythree via we heart it

All I want to do
is sit in the sun for awhile

and burn

burn

until the bone
is exposed.

nineteen and under

photo by gasolinexrain

dear glossy cover girl
with poetry written on your hands
how did you get to be friends
with goddess muse hero woman
did you tell her you are sad
did you tell her you feel fat
and that boys hate you
that you are not popular
even though you have Cosmo hair
a button nose, raspberry gloss-covered lips
i could have been you, too
so many years ago
but i guess i'm all washed up now
just another girl grown up
no more kittens in the clouds
no pukka shells framing my collar bone
muse goddess wants no part of that
she is old herself
looking for a wishing well
inside your palms
poetry like pennies
a thousand broken hearts
and she has to save them
she has to cradle the babies
who write stories about faeries
but she cannot save me
i have expired

Procrastinating (not writing my novel)

(I make desktop wallpaper for "inspiration")

Ezra
I have known you

in the hush of trees
in autumn's amber light
in fields of summer sunsets

Ezra
I have known you

in the hurting sea
and in the distant city lights
remembering all the nights

when my heart was dark and blind

You speak of midnight stars and music
Soft, pink cardigans and delicate brooches
Beauty as pure beauty
No scissors to rip the ribbon
But there's something underneath the rug
Something you've swept away
You've discarded this beauty
Swollen, apple-red eyes
Demons in the mirror
Broken plastic wings
And cigarettes
Where is your tragedy
It is the only beauty left
When the world is a wave
Above your heart

P.S. I started working on my novel today. I didn't get too far, of course, but I'm weeding through a lot of information. Organizing it in my head. People, places, times, dates. The important thing is I made a conscious effort to sit down and write something.

And so the journey begins...

The artist and the muse...

Muses are poison
when they become human.
And they will.
If you so much as touch them
they will.
If you so much as speak to them
they will.
They will always become Icarus
and you will be beneath them.

There are the girls
with sharp noses
and drugged-up,
smoky eyes.
They are fae
with literary tattoos
on their backs
and they wear lacy socks
with gauzy dresses.
They are talented.
Multi-talented and beautiful.
Ugly beautiful and strange
and they have older boyfriends
with long hair.
The boyfriends take
naked pictures of the fae.
Perfect jaw line.
Perfect bones.

And there are the boys.
The boys with wild wings,
hard hands,
lips quick to kiss
the parts of you
they want to tattoo.
Perfect boys in your mind.
Perfect, perfect,
walking right past you everyday,
smiling and giving you poetry.

Then you let your human self
saunter up to these girls,
these boys,
these vile muses,
snakes,
apples,
and you shrink down
beneath them.
You shrink because you think
they are gods, goddesses,
you are unworthy of such inspiration.
Give, give,
you will give them everything.

But how quickly
they turn to dust.
Muses to humans.
And you'll see.
I promise you'll see.
You'll see the Adam
and the Eve
and the human they're made of.
But it will be too late.

Published!

Check it out on page 5 of the June 2008 issue (it's in the archived folder).

Sixteen

For readwritepoem

He doesn’t care
about your blue, silk dress
embellished with flowers
or all the hours you spent
on your makeup.
He doesn’t care
about your heart
of bone china –
it is soft sand
between his fingers.

You love baseball now
and classic rock.
You love his shaggy hair.
Life is beautiful.

He loves too.
He loves the pink
between your thighs.

I wish I could
save you from him.