Poetry

What You Did Not Say

by Lindsey on December 2, 2011

in Poetry

In the intonations of your breath

I can hear the expectation of love

and travel on its rhythm across

the thousands of minutes that separate us.

A worldly couple.

A couple breaking rules,

tearing down barriers,

and dancing the dance of intimate conversation

– a play to those who mock us.

I hear in your breath the quiet

moan of separation, the swift

cry of expectation, the sigh on

which we build a home.

Tagged as: poems

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Biography at Twelve

by Lindsey on November 29, 2011

in Poetry

A boiling prairie land

beneath a canopy of dust and heat

rises on an August afternoon.

A twelfth year veteran of life,

skin rubbed raw with

Oklahoma’s red dirt

feverishly attempts to read herself

from the outside in.

Dyeing applies history

like a Cherokee’s tears.

Tagged as: poems

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The Struggle

by Lindsey on November 13, 2011

in Poetry

She ended up; now holds a yearly

festival of moving. Priority is to keep

the path across a town where

bodies of water are spaces like elevators.

The object of the game is to keep

juggling in confined days.

A small child and a crate of pomegranates.

A woman in Salzburg pushing away pedestrians.

The mountain range stopping traffic.

An idea of what can be achieved.

Tagged as: poems

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Manifesto

by Lindsey on November 3, 2011

in Just Sayin',Poetry

I am a writer. I write because I feel compelled to write. I write because the lines and phrases put themselves together inside my mind and beg to be released. If I did not write, my brain might explode.

I write because there are hundreds of people trapped inside me. It is unfair of me to keep them jailed in such a restrictive environment. I write to let them out to explore the world.

I write because children sing jump rope songs and nursery rhymes on the playground, then shoot each other. I write because my son is precious and I want the world to know. I write because the forests are not just trees, they are entire cities. I write because Nature sings her own quiet song that she has privileged me to hear.

But why do I write poetry?

I write poetry because in the lines and spaces I can hear myself think. I can hear my voice reaching out and breaking the mirror that covers consciousness. The fragments escape in many directions as do the meanings of my words. I write poetry because only with poetry can the mundane and ordinary become magical and romantic.

Poetry is a form of expression that lets crazies like me sound like we understand the world, or some small place in it. Or maybe poetry is a form of expression that lets crazies like me prove to the world that we understand nothing and so one day decided to make everything up ourselves. Poetry is the life blood of letters, words, lines, and spaces. Poetry is everything and nothing all at once. Poetry is not just a writing genre, but a living, breathing entity.

Poetry gives me the courage to remember. Poetry gives me the courage to remember on paper. Poetry is a friend, a confidante, and psychiatrist. Poetry lets me take all of my emotions and thoughts and release them to the world as you release balloons to the sky – someone will find them.

Poetry is voice.

Poetry is my voice.

Tagged as: inspiration, poems

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A Warning

by Lindsey on October 28, 2011

in Poetry

We are the Immortalizers-

a group of ordinary people

not entirely unlike super heroes.

Chaucer, our founding father, the

purveyor of the principle of

wordy revenge. We leap small

minds in a single verse and

with the slightest twitch of a pen

can turn Miss Manners into

Heidi Fleiss. Beware.

We are poets.

Don’t tell us your stories unless

you want them to be heard.

Tagged as: poems

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Where I’m From

by Lindsey on September 21, 2011

in Poetry

I am from summers hanging upside down on the monkey bars,
from Oscar Meyer bologna cups and macaroni art.

I am from the suburban safety net of Girl Scouts, ballet classes, and roaming the neighborhood freely as long as I was home by dark.

From bicycles with banana seats and day glow spoke beads.

I am from the evergreen pines of Sherwood Forest, the backyard needles with transformative powers to be kindling, jewels, magic potion ingredients.

I am from secret backyard societies of witches or fairies, depending on the day. From closet book clubs and Cabbage Patch mommies.

I am from Thanksgivings in Dallas and hating turkey, stuffing, green beans, sweet potatoes, and pecan pie.

From Duncans and Simpsons and Bexar County Adoption Center.

I am from the importance of manners, prayers before meals, and not letting others see our faults and mistakes.

From Tulsa, Texas, as my mother called it, and happy chickens are tasty chickens.

I’m from Germans, Brits, and Cherokees, spaghetti, fried catfish, and Dr. Pepper as coffee.

From “Are we there yet? (That is my song.),” sticky wickies, station wagon carpools.

I am from pigtails, yellow silky blankets, Nancy Drew books.

I am from the little girl who wrote a book of poems about animals at seven – and hasn’t stopped writing since.

Tagged as: mama kat, Poetry

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Slow Descent

by Lindsey on June 23, 2011

in Poetry

Very much like the moment

the rivers seem

to still and stop

because a storm is coming,

Like the moment just before

a tornado takes hold of your life

and twists everything around

rearranging the landscapes

As when a hundred starlings lift

and bank together

before they wheel and drop.

Like watching a silent picture

played in slow motion.

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Out of the Box

by Lindsey on May 16, 2011

in Poetry

A steel box holds the
     blackest of black
     spinning
     spinning
     unrelenting
     fearless

No more box.

No more timid
     weakening
     slowing
     but
     piercing
     branding

From the depths
pouring out
stabbing

Take hold.
I am here.

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Dust of Unearned Stories

by Lindsey on May 12, 2011

in Poetry

Leaves of past stories covered the ground -
broken, torn, without life.

You spread a quilt over the leaves
and pulled me down beside you
to tell old stories and make new
until roots burst forth contained
no longer by fallow ground. Not so silently
from the valley, a blue updraft
of dust and seeds and wings.

My dreams were the color of turquoise
and the river thanked me
for adding to her depth.
Strong current pulling away from lies.

Too fast. Too far. Too strong
without raft or paddle.
Unprepared. Unaware.

So you folded me up and
left me to collect dust.

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But for Tomorrow

by Lindsey on April 7, 2011

in Poetry

Nourish callow blooms, yet withered
     but for tomorrow.
Whisper dreams of languish
     but for tomorrow.
Draw down into stone
     but for tomorrow.
Push through shattered solace
     but for tomorrow
Brush off stabbed in scars
     but for tomorrow.
Wrap in a gown of glacilic thread
     but for tomorrow.
Keep the jar of my heart
     but for tomorrow.