Painting

When the rain comes,

it's not enough to drown out

the sound of our constantly

beating hearts.

I began writing you letters

in my mind while sitting behind

Bohemian curtains and painting

lines on canvas to pass the time.

Days blended together and evenings

came during which I realize

I hadn't been painting at all;

there were piles of empty mugs,

unwashed clothes strewn across my world.

When I got dressed that morning

the calendar revealed the months

that quickly passed, exes on calendars,

counting back as I lived in my solitary room;

where had I been?

The rain comes when least expected,

dripping patterns on tin roofs

with the hush of rushing water;

we are rejuvenated in morning dew

and monsoon weather, in waves

of liquid foaming blue.

Let's take a trip to the ocean.

Letters of the Atlantic

collections of photographs
will tell a story like a book
-only through color and form

i will collect a million photographs
and meet you on the bench below
the streetlamp that i once made my
own emblem, a photographic plea
to save a dying memory

it was beside the river
that once was crossed in snow

i have attained my hand-made
adventure cap that brings advantages
to the wandering whimsical woman
who whispers in the dark about the
willow trees and weathered dreams

i replace the old with the new


she requires a cream colored parasol for
the idealistic, perfected pose- a picture
-one to add to the million;
a million and one and the last will tell it all

she awoke with letters of the Atlantic
imprinted upon her porcelain skin
volumes of oceans and continents coalesce
upon the covers of her night

argentina quietly slipped into her lucid
forgotten dreams-
like scenes from buenos aires could cure
her restless soul

she knew no other way to fold or unfold
the map and there are no creases yet it is
prepared for storage and upon arrival
will be freed of its bounds and hung above
the covers in a new town. with a new house
and a new name for how it has been.

the forecast called for rain and so she brought
her parasol in case of the photograph and in
case her red stockings became wet it would never match
the cream of the cover and she would never be the same

after the rain she found a bottle with
a foreign name and shattered it against the dumpster
because it felt like it needed to be changed
for the sake of one less perfect bottle;
the lack of a sign of grace



http://daisyrainbow.deviantart.com/art/Map-to-Adventure-98226999

Things Accumulate.

Suddenly the world feels like the days when I caught raindrops on my extended tongue. Each experience so intensely inviting, and yet spread apart like new life in every beat. I have collected my raindrops in a mason jar, folded into the creases of vibrant magazine stars. Accumulations of silly fears, sweat and tears. When will I allow myself to to unfold them?


Our apologies mean
so much less
if they are
accumulations of
our Fears.

It always surprises me
to find Desperation
in your eyes.

I refuse to uphold
the centuries of
little white lies.
We avoid the truth,
just to keep the beauty
in the moment.
To convince ourselves
that we can feel
and taste
the happiness of
our lives.

A Little of This. A Little of That.

Trudging through the rain, she noticed the flicker of distant streetlights. Funny, she hadn't noticed them ever doing that before. Her shadow, elongated in front of her, raced ahead as if it were a guide in the flickering light. Drops pelted her hood and the sound reverberated throughout her body. It somehow calmed her racing heart. Her hands were stuffed into too-small pockets. In the right, she roughly clutched a pendant on simple white ribbon. She knew the imprint of a heart would be left upon her flesh, as though the lingering memory had seared itself into her. It seemed odd to her to hold the symbol in the palm of her hand. She slowly allowed herself to review the last few months.