Because I need to be here too…

This is a poem I have tried to write for some time now. It deals with the loss of a loved one, even though that fact is shaded within imagery of the city, any city, but I particularly had St.Louis in mind. As a writer, some things and people turn out to be incredibly hard to write about, even when you are desperate to find a way to. This poem is not complete, perhaps it will never be complete, because that word defines an ending and I don’t truly believe I can create within language all I feel about this person. I hope you enjoy!

Photo Credit: marcp_dmoz via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: marcp_dmoz via Compfight cc


Time takes from us what was never ours,

a soft cushion of a memory bends prints

through the searing pain of her haunting death,

the snow and ice took her and I believe it was very cold that stint,

the truck didn’t know what it hit or why

that person inside it suddenly felt something grow lighter

and drift away into what can only be the absence of that dark night,


Because that is the way it seems to be like, I see it in a picture,

a round frame and it plays itself over and over, but it is blurry and I can’t see her.


And then five years later, I am in a city and the lights beacon desire towards my empty palms,

grass struggles to grow through the cobbles and cement cracks,

people watch their clocks and the sound of fate in sirens round about curves quickly,

all is so instant and slow here it seems.


I walk through dark passages of streets with lost paintings on the side of brick buildings,

and I think how someone once raised themselves up and decanted a message I’ll never know or live through.

It peels off now, scatters itself with bad pronunciation and scratched grammar,

but I wonder whether she also saw these lost letters,


Perhaps she did when she lived in this place too and I see her there sometimes.

I see her in the urgent pose of the city, like fresh linen candles, like just born cascades of green or displayed art in a small park,

and for a time it is all what it should be and still alive, still blooming, still pretending,


still lugging itself about those streets with those paints that drip across the red bricks and run down bodies.


Perhaps I Could

I hope you are having a happy Monday! Today I am going to be blogging about something a little different from my earlier posts, because today I am incorporating a poem. In the fall I will be going to graduate school at Southern Illinois University Edwardsville for creative writing, specializing in poetry and so I think it will be nice to pop my greatest passion on here now and again.

I would like to share with you my most recent poem titled, “Perhaps I Could.” It is a poem dealing primarily with nature imagery, but also has whispers of cultural perception about what is right and beautiful. It has not been work-shopped as of yet and so you are reading it in one of its most raw stages. I hope you enjoy!

Photo Credit: sixbysixtasy via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: sixbysixtasy via Compfight cc

I turn this way and that all day,

feel the leaves crunch under my boots like delicate paper flowers cracking

and then he buys them for me, red and bleeding

and I am suppose to love them as they are deemed mine,

but I inspect the underbelly of deeper black shrivels

they act like shaky stilts underneath a healthy glowing hue,

the whole thing is dying.

I trudge past puddles of water piles,

they slouch comfortably into the rock and dirt,

they spread and soak the pricks of green stalks,

the russet leaves with their cracks lift and float,

in another world much smaller than my own

and my face is reflected disjointed and suspended in its reflection,

I could dig myself a place.

I lean against trees with hands like leaves,

rain trees that brush the hair from the face,

replacing it with its sticky sap and seeds,

I push into it with all my weight, peel off bits of stiff bark wrapping,

its voice lives in the wind’s whisper and wrath,

and it sizzles like hot water boiling,

threatens the clouds that roll into its top branches, starving it of sun.

I think I could,

perhaps I would like a puddle or maybe a tree that sighs,

perhaps I could place them both as armor and shackle my life,

I will close my eyes and feel what it is to be alive and I will have no flowers.