Free Spirit (*some restrictions apply)

Aspiring poet, 25 years old. (I follow and like from here, but you can get to know me better at my personal blog, @heart-of-a-hobbit.)

[rae-muguet]

3/9/2022

these sweet moments in the dawn -  when my son stirs but before he wakes -  my eyes are bleary, but my heart is fuller than the cup of coffee my husband just carried out the door - a house spider hangs in the corner of the room like a morning star with slender silver rays -  there is a quiet tide of life outside, cars and tractors going down the road -  but we are stationary, his tiny toes pressing into my side, our arms brushing -  still and silent, at least for a few more moments. 

~ rae 

[rae-muguet]

Queenly

when he tells me i look queenly,  i always think of Cleopatra (not Elizabeth Taylor, sumptuous and sensuous, but the real woman: hook nosed and solemn, stamped onto cold metal) or Christina of Sweden (poor posture, frizzy hair) or Elizabeth I (pale with tired eyes).

i wish i could see the queen he perceives instead of this weak reflection.

~rae

[rae-muguet]

3/5/2022

i let the breeze run its fingers through my hair accepted the sun’s embrace greeted moss and mushroom like old friends savored the squelch of sodden soil discovered a piece of old honeycomb like a fallen star left husband and son sleeping at home felt a little freedom

it was enough.

~ rae

[thatfriendlyanon]

@brown-little-robin, you inspired me to try my hand at writing an Answer. thanks for being the reason i cracked open my poetry notebook for the first time in a month. <3

In Response To Robert Frost

Nothing gold can stay As Earth orbits decay, Man’s cyclical demise Affixed to setting skies. But see––beneath the night A risen sun alights. The flaming sword is gone As dark gives way to dawn.

[rae-muguet]

1/2/2022

snow baptizes each bough down to the tiniest twig to live is to feel the weight of redemption 

~ rae

[rae-muguet]

10/26/2021

vultures circle in gleeful anticipation of summer’s demise

~ rae

[rae-muguet]

5/24/2021

when i was little, i only did the things i wanted. now i only do the things that distract me from the things i have to do, and i don’t want to do any of it.

it’s no use asking where that little girl went. she is swallowed up inside of me. she bleeds when i bleed, but i cry more now than i ever did when i was little. 

~ rae

[rae-muguet]

3/22/2021

somewhere a window is open, and through it, i  hear the birds singing

~ rae

[rae-muguet]

3/5/2021

i am not particularly lovely - my sweater smells a little funny - my hair is frayed, my skin is rough - but i am loved. and that’s enough.

~ rae

[teashoesandhair]

If I had to title this, I would call it ‘triolet about the hypergraphia that followed your death and the months of wordlessness thereafter’, but that’s not the catchiest title, is it

[rae-muguet]

May the days that follow be kinder and May they leave us wiser and May the sun shine brighter and May our souls be lighter  

May rain melt away our sorrows and whatever comes tomorrow May it find us loving, living, breathing deeply, and forgiving

~ rae 

[rae-muguet]

M

every night, he taps his toothbrush out to the tune of Holst’s Mars: bum ba-da-da-dum dum

and when it’s his turn to wash the dishes, he prays the rosary while standing at the sink -  maybe counting bubbles instead of beads

and sometimes late at night, we talk about the hard parts of life and love  and i marvel at how his heart can still be soft and pure as gold  after all these years. 

~ rae 

[rae-muguet]

12/16/2019

in my journal, poems and musings elation at this path we’re choosing the rush of something new.

in my pocket, rocks and sand the treasures you placed in my hand that day upon the shore.

in my dresser, tickets, photos old wristbands, notes, a few mementos of hours spent with you.

in my heart now, joy and peace the love we share that shall not cease and who could ask for more?

~ rae

[syringavulgaris]

Mary Oliver, Worm Moon

[aseaofquotes]

L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

[why-bless-your-heart]

Black-beetle grackles

And their cricket-backed wives,

Prim-peck the pavement,

Cocking yellow eyes,

Iridescent oil slicks

And dun live oak leaves.

Buzz and whir and click and whistle

Their chatters challenge traffic sounds,

Little beetles, smaller crickets.

City’s back stretched gray and cracked

Sustains her insect brood.

[thesmophorae]

must my poetry be “good”? is it not enough to merely write a page in lowercase with no punctuation and never look at it again?