Poem: Cushion-cut sparkles & your vinyl on my wall

My favorite time in Chicago is when it snows

The happiest, the saddest

My father never met my lover

Wash my soft, graceful face with rosewater
He never told anybody but I know I was his favorite daughter
We weren’t the kind to shop in departments
Me and my collages, alone in my apartment
The brick wall where I hung your vinyl cover
That I took on polaroid
In the Spring

Every birthday of mine is spent at a rose garden
Didn’t catch your last insult, I beg your pardon?
I’m decaying slowly
Can everyone tell?
A marine biologist
Tall, and bright in his field
Who only owns one plastic shell
He says the real things – they never actually sell
A set of crucifixes, medium-well
You cheat on your wife, your friends never tell

 


I’d never depart

I loved to love you; you loved to be loved by me

I remember when.

Keepsakes
My engagement ring
Beloved thing
Almost died, how beautiful of a Spring
I love diamonds, yes I do
The shine, the glamour
Reminds me of somebody I think about being
But have no route to that sort of life
See the deep amber skies
Can’t ever tell if people are saying hello or their final goodbyes
I’ve got the most beautiful green eyes
But a boy never told me that
And I don’t ever expect one to
I just read about it in the novels
Jane Austen, Aldous Huxley
Mansfield Park, Charlotte Bronte
Things fall apart
Oh yeah
Things
Fall
Apart

In the mirror, I look so strange

Most scathing dissection of the hollowness
That American society barely trembles on
Dystopian but generic
I hate to speak out loud
Hate that irreversible girl sound
Hypnotic, devastating
Tell me I’m hopelessly divine!
I think I lost my tablet –
The great tragedy of our time!

I picked out my children’s names
Then decided to never conceive
Unless my husband said please
Chest to ground, down on his knees

When my lost love proposed to me
I had one beautiful engagement ring
Later that season
He said goodbye to me
I sold it for free

We shall part like the sea
As if it was ever to be
I would’ve died happily

I would’ve died gratefully

 

I would have died fulfilled and free
The lost art of caring for me


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Provide feedback: Questions, comments, critiques, submissions, songs I should listen to.  * * * *

Ça fait longtemps que ma transformation intérieure a commencé.

“A really great talent finds its happiness in execution.” – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I really like that sentiment and see how it can apply to the way my life has been slowly turning around. I’ve changed some habits, rid of others, and cultivated some new ideas regarding the direction I want my life to move in. These are stressful times, but the music I listen to, the art I create and surround myself with, and other peoples’ contributions- literary, research-based, or in social situations, all constitute the rise of this change in mentality. It’s been a long time coming and I’m not “here” yet, but I’m executing, I sure am executing.

L’amour l’emporte.

1 year of living in the same residence. It’s bittersweet but hazy. The same four walls, the same pitfalls. To what degree can a human life change? I find it interesting how much the view changes from the other side of the hill. Where it’s still.

My place is still like a landfill.

I mean — don’t freak out; it’s minimal and all. Duh. But there’s something about the fabric of the curtains, something about the unfinished art projects I put to the side, and keep there. Lately I’ve been working on more pieces, but it’s a steady growth. And that sums up my living in this space, this enclosure — with this vast area of breathing life around me. I am beginning to sound a bit too Romanticism-era (literature) which cracks me up because why not. I can keep my prose & manifest dreams or something of that nature.

Il n’est nul besoin de la présenter.

A young, courageous & feminine adult who wears dresses year-round / Seeking to make life more romantic. Loves the most to be photographing flowers, and urban & chaotic settings and imagery. Spending hours in rose gardens is heaven.

I am not immune to the wonders of the darkness; at times this is where I recoil. But this new, grand gesture of stepping out into the hot sunshine has left me with flushed cheeks and a warm hospitality. / An introvert, an ambivalent trajectory, multiple passes for cursing despite attempts to be more polite. Writes poems while waiting in line. Flirts with language.

Writing preserves memories, and I need those. I wonder where this will take me.

portland rose test garden
OCTOBER 6, 2019