likes / wants / needs to write poetry apparently

We should remember Sophie Scholl

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

If I could be like anything —
(in shape
and form
and functioning)
I should be like The White Roses.

Knowing surely there would be a day,
they’d all be picked
and plucked
and pulled away.

Still stubbornly growing.
(bigger, bolder, braver,
ever outward
toward the sun)

Petals undone.


A poem about being good enough to grow

Photo by Eilis Garvey on Unsplash

One Hundred Days of Gratitude. Ten.

The little white pill
you take once a day.
Occasionally with coffee,
sometimes with beer.

An alarm
on your wrist
so you can always hear.

The thick roots of an old tree.
a tether through all weather
and necessity during the storm —
don’t just keep the large trunk planted,
but are how the bark is formed
and how the branches grow.

Now you know.
Seeing yourself a little taller
for the first time in years.
Now you know.

A poem about accepting the sea

Photo by Matt Hardy on Unsplash

One Hundred Days of Gratitude. Nine.

How fortunate I am to have a friend
like you, to tie me to the mast.

When the real waves come, some pray, some laugh.

Some cry out
against the cold freedom of it all
some call — to love, the glass, or the golden calf.

Go ahead, if it helps you, button down the hatch.
Drop anchor, stay mainsail, and sure, release the catch.

But you may as well enjoy the show
when Mother Nature acts.

How lucky to feel salt on my face, tides tossing, and lighting
crack and crash. No rued regrets. No damned decisions.

When I go down
I just hope
it’s fast.

Actually, tie me to the wheel, so I can at least feel
in control
the last.


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