swimming in circles

Feel free to send me an ask with a request for a poem and I might write about it * Message me to ask for writing help or other advice or just to talk * Study Abroad Blog: thevoyagejournal.wordpress.com

[meaningless--poetry]

“It was supposed to rain Yesterday, but it never Did. The clouds were all there, But they refused to cleanse the earth. The sky grew dark much earlier And the world stayed up out of spite. Televisions tuned in, Scrolling on smartphones and switching Between tabs, refreshing, Double-checking for an update On the fate of a country’s Power-possessor. President. The red bar rose, racing the blue. If only it were only colors competing. Minutes passed by, and hours, Nothing changing except The amount of hope left. Reality left red rashes on cheeks. Each time a piece of news was released, We added it to the tally Of unexpected losses. President. Vice President. House. Senate. What law will pass first? We fell asleep Afraid of what would come When we would wake up. This morning, the sun shone Like shining was all it knew how to do, As we on Earth no longer knew what to do. In warm and windy air, we wandered In a strange state of temporary ignorance. Two more months. Two more months of this, Though it is too close to helplessness To call it ignorance’s bliss.”

— Sometimes reality doesn’t hit until it’s too late.

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I sit by the pond just outside of the city, not quite out in the desert, reading a poem and a crane flies in front of me, steps in the pond, and swallows a fish before I can blink.

The moon glows like a pearl under a spotlight in a jewelry store. The darker patches look like the continents, like it's reflecting the Earth in shades of silver.

The rainbow sky wraps around the pond and I imagine it's a lake and ignore the palm trees and pretend the dragonflies are fireflies, and for a second, I'm back home in Michigan, at the lake, waiting for the bugs to come out to tell me it's time to go in.

If I were in Michigan, there'd be a breeze now, and then I'd shiver and pull my sweatshirt sleeves over my hands. But this is Arizona, so I'm in a tank top and still sweating. This isn't exactly the warmth I was looking for, but I'm finding it more and more in people these days.

I must be doing something right.

[meaningless--poetry]

Alone Together. March 27, 2020.

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Ignorance is only bliss for the ignorant.

For the rest of the world, it's a barrier.

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Riding on a rock,

Attached at the feet and heart,

We spin together.

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[Clicking on the image might make it less blurry for some reason]

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Four Thorns

I was told I would wear

a ring on my finger when I grow up.

The ring would show commitment

to love. But when I look at rings,

all I see are thorns.

The first thorn would cut

travel out of my life.

I would be expected to settle down

in a cookie-cutter house and live

like the rest of them,

in a prescribed career for a prescribed

amount of years.

The second thorn would cut

my personality like trimming

a bush, so that I am smoothed out on the edges

because love requires sacrifice.

The third thorn would cut

into my patience,

and the fourth would cut

him out of my life. Divorce

is prescribed too, now, isn’t it?

A commitment to love and comfort is easy,

but I see no comfort

in the thought of becoming comfortable

in Everyone’s shoes.

[meaningless--poetry]

how do i adult aka my recent google searches

Can a ukulele be left in the cold

Can you eat tortillas after expiration date

Do you leave seeds in zucchini for bread

What are the insides of lunch boxes made of

What are the symptoms of the flu

What causes stroke

What determines if a student is dependent

What does cost of living index mean

What generation am i

What is bitcoin

What questions to ask your interviewer

What US state should i live in

When are taxes due

Where to exchange bills for coins

Why lease a car

How big is an acre

How long does zucchini last

How to boil broccoli

How to grow a pineapple

How to jump a car

How to know what kind of light bulb i need

How to open a bottle of wine

Is gif a word

[meaningless--poetry]

Every winter,

The skin on my hands wrinkles

And cracks like thin ice.

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My mom packs up the beach bag

While we paint our skin

With sunscreen. She grabs

The wagon and we walk

To the beach.

……

I dart out of the lake

And race to my towel,

Wrapping myself in it

And kicking back on the bench

Under direct sunlight.

Only minutes pass before drops

Of lake water are replaced by sweat.

My mouth dries out, but the heat

Stole my energy, so I lie

On the bench and ask my mom

To bring me water.

A few gulps in, I stop when I hear

A familiar song in the distance.

My brother and I glare at each other.

“Irish funeral music!”

We laugh and run to get some cash,

Making guesses as to why

Our ice cream truck driver

Chooses to play that song.

“Maybe it’s the only one that isn’t copyrighted.”

“Maybe his hearing is messed up

and he thinks it sounds happy!”

We dash to the road as the old man

Pulls over the truck. He smiles

And hands us our ice cream.

Once he drives away,

We giggle again

And dance to the dark music,

Our bare feet burning on the pavement.

[meaningless--poetry]

The tired train weaved

Under ground and above ground,

Stitching up the night.

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Do you remember Florence '17

  when we treated ourselves to real

  ‎Italian food and our server welcomed

‎  us like family and we drank Prosecco

Do you remember the walk back,

  when we wandered through a little park

  and under dim streetlights, we gazed at the art

‎  before going river-bound and wound

‎  up back in our hotel room

‎  and the elevator made me dizzy

‎  or maybe it was the Prosecco

Do you remember shaking our heads

  when we forgot to buy the bottle opener

‎  so we called your old boyfriend

‎  who told us to use a key

Do you remember that heavy room key

Do you remember spilling the wine

  when the cork popped in instead of out

‎  and the wine tinted the white sheets

Do you remember sitting outside

  when we finally made it to the balcony

‎  and drank from plastic cups

‎  gazing at the Arno

Do you remember the moonrise

  when I said I had never seen it before

‎  and we watched the ball of light float

‎  above the mountains and outline

  them like thread and I missed

‎  climbing that mountain by the sea

‎  and I knew I would miss being

‎  out on the balcony, Florence '17,

  in perfect weather and perfect lighting

[meaningless--poetry]

Row 3, seat 2. I sit down in the plain white room At the plain white table And open up my laptop. I clench my jaw. I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them, I check the clock on the wall. Five more minutes. I tap my fingers on the table, Shake my leg, Hunch over, Rub my hands together for warmth. I look up over my laptop. The teacher walks in, Seemingly sliding over to her table. Before her, a class of puppets. When she clears her throat To talk, she sees a stir—a pull of the strings, Back to life. Is the teacher a puppet, too? A student’s hand is pulled up above her head. Like always, after her question, The teacher says, “That is a good question. So…” I start tapping again. My jaw pops. I wonder if it is still snowing, If I have enough soup left for dinner tomorrow, What having a real job is like, And how many puppets I will work with.

[meaningless--poetry]

The rose bushes float me away. I am watering my mother's plants. The dry air is unstiffened by a faint breeze And all the birds sing their morning hymns. The pine trees tug at my thoughts. I am riding my bike across a campground While my father buys more wood for the fire. My mother calls me back for the picnic lunch. A seagull flaps its wings, sailing and swooping. I am on a towel on a beach munching on a sandwich. A seagull snatches my sandwich out of my hands. I stare in surprise, then I laugh. A black bird with white wings soars toward the sky. I find myself on a blue park bench In the Parc de l'Arboretum, wondering How many other living things I've never seen.

Parc de l'Arboretum

[meaningless--poetry]

If any of you are interested, I have a study abroad blog where I document my semester abroad in France: https://thevoyagejournal.wordpress.com

[meaningless--poetry]

Afraid to sit in a park and just sit there-- as if the world will glare at me The absurd idea of putting my phone away and sitting as those who sat before me-- Listening to birds, smelling flowers, noticing a stranger's limp and wondering where the injury came from-- As if these observations are boring, unimportant, a waste of time, silly-- As if somehow, staring at my phone and reading about a stranger on the news or scrolling through pictures of birds is more acceptable.

[meaningless--poetry]

We walked into the room And took our seats. Someone else stood in your place. He said he was there for now, But he hesitated And I knew you would never be back. I always wanted to tell you I read your poems And fell in love with everything you described. The sand, the waves, the stone. I read your obituary today. Sure, I saw it coming. But it said you are to be cremated And scattered on Sleeping Bear. I bet that's what you wrote that poem about. The sand, the waves, the stone. I am an ocean away now, but I can hear the wind on Lake Michigan, Strong as you were. I can feel the sand, Soft as you became when you told us About your adorable granddaughter. I can see the waves, Calm as you remained, Like an unmoving stone along the shore. The sand, the waves, the stone. I’m sure they’ll greet you with a smile.

With a Smile: Tribute to Professor Matt