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| poetry :: home |
Just a note to say... I think poetry is a way to work through things you're not interested in talking about with your therapist. This stuff, I remember. Still, don't take anything here too seriously. What do I know? I'm just another girl looking through the past.
words such as:
parsimonious, perfunctory, and ubiquitous
don't easily pass through our everyday
generic conversations. we try out these
"palabras," tasting each syllable.
not knowing an exact definition
makes it more scandalous -
sort of like speaking a
foreign language and only knowing
the swear words.
your carefully chosen words
punctuated by dangerously comfortable silences
balance me
and write introspective questions on
my previously content brain
your intense gaze and relative proximity
un-nerve me
breaking my concentration
and inserting new melodies where perfunctory thoughts once resided
now, the chiricahuas call to convince me
nothing is ever certain
so i switch to another radio station
and hit the gas
i keep thinking maybe
driving fans these flames
music alters the direction
then i wonder if i should
i write these lines
trying to filter our relationship
moonlight, gaultier
so intoxicating
makes me question more than who i am
zinfandel contributes its notes
as does the music - ambient in nature
proximity to you does the rest
i wish i could be honest with you
driving home
watching for eye shine
listening to the layers in your music
smelling the blossoming trees, then sewage
tasting the faint remnants of rolling rock
feeling the chill breeze through the open windows
saying goodnight
in the grand scheme
i loved you before i knew anything about you
sitting alongside you - couch, barstool, rock
candlelit wine and conversation, like that soul miner’s daughter song
you serenading me with my guitar and your melodies
meeting qualifications for anyone you enjoy spending time with
now they're just hazy memories
my deepest roots in terms of you
part of a long history
Walking up the stone steps,
I could see the little boy in his Easter Sunday best
holding Mama's white-gloved hand.
Stepping inside the heavy wood door,
I could hear the hushing lips of Papa in his grey-striped suit,
trying to quiet his son.
Now, on this land,
the years creep through the soles of my shoes
and whisper tales into my straining ear.
I sit, warmed by a fire,
wood from the labors of my grandfather's hands,
and wonder how many times he did the same.
your music is dangerous
(how?)
it makes me introspective
(so!)
it makes me question every decision i've ever made
(and...)
it makes me think of you
your silence is dangerous
(how?)
it makes me content
(so!)
it makes me too comfortable with the dialogue
(and...)
it makes me think of you
your gaze is dangerous
(how?)
it makes me pause
(so!)
it makes me lose my concentration on your carfully chosen words
(and...)
it makes me think of you
your mere presence is dangerous
(how?)
it makes me balanced
(so!)
it makes me want to drive to baton rouge for the weekend
(and...)
it makes me want to love you