Hurts a Little Too Much

When you say that I am not as pretty.  I laugh and say it is part of my charm.  But in reality I am suddenly analyzing my flaws.  Is it my nose you were referring to?  It is rather oddly shaped.  Or was it the way my face has been put together?  I will not lie and say that I do not care.  Because on the inside I know that I am no great beauty.  I try to ignore it, yet a part of my heart wishes for the unwishable.   It thinks about doorsteps, and hammers.  That part of my heart desires windows and notes.  It hopes for words to become full again.  So when you say I am not as pretty, you, Oh hopeless male, did not realize that I already knew that.  But it hurts just a little too much for my "clever personality", and "quick wit" to cope with.  The stick dug a little deeper into the abyss of escaped subconscious thoughts which have been noticed.  I will just have to put some tar around the edges of the pothole and call it good.

Some I know

A Girl

Papers, equation, words

fill her head.

Green eyes calculating busyness

she surveys a crowed 

picking out the stories she knows

and nodding to them solemnly.

Blunt are her unveiling words

she never hides behind excuses

critical and realistic is the lens

which she looks through.

But when needed she can be a shoulder

and wipe a way any kind of tear

gently.

"Why Do You Run?"

I sit here, at my computer, attempting to polish my own image of myself.  I wish that I was never nervous, yet I find myself quivering with the anticipation of what is to come.  Track State is tomorrow.  And I do not know anything but fear.  Because I would prefer not to delve into the complex issue of why I fear failure, I am going to answer a question that has been asked so many times, that it has become engraved into my mind.  "Why (on earth) do you run?"  First I am tempted to say back, "why do you breath (and please stop)?"  But the more I think about this question the more I wish to answer it.  Yet there never seems to be enough time.  So I will answer it now.  

When I was a little girl, and leaves began to fall,  I would (to avoid raking with my mom) take a shiny plastic leaf bag and unwrap from its roll.  Then I would tare it off at the dotted lines and the noise it made was extremely satisfying.  We lived on a dead end back in those days, so no dangerous cars ventured into my world.  I would run up and down the street with the leaf bag held in my arms capturing the air as it streamed behind me.  I remember the cool teal of my matching sweat top and bottom.  I remember the smell of crinkly leaves.  And I remember the feeling of running as fast as I could, until my legs would not push any harder.  There are many feelings that I have felt in this world, many tastes and memories, many friends, jokes, and laughs.  But nothing is as easy to bring back as that feeling of utter bliss.  I felt happy not because of the actions of others, or the achievements of myself, or whether people liked me or not.  I was just happy because I was running.  That same happiness hits me when I am coming around the bend of my 400m or finishing up my 800m.  It is so easy for me to slip back into the intensity of being young.  People tell me that when I am having a good race my lips are bent into the shape of contentment.  I know why.  Its because for a short while, I can reach up and touch the face of God with my own imperfect fingertips.  That is why I run.  

ignoring the learning

"What number goes in for 3X squared -18X+75=0?" My math teacher asks the worn class.

We sit watching blankly as he scribbles the quadratic equation out for us.  He turns, expecting and awaiting the bustle of calculators being tapped and pencils being steered.  He waits for us to brandish our thoughts.  Yet we stow them away.  To fill the awkward blankness that seems to engulf the room, he flips the green white board marker in his hand.  The classes eyes universally watch it spin up and down.  Ignoring the little thoughts in our head which scream, "Foil the formula!"

We wish to take off our socks and shoes, so as to climb more quickly and quietly out of the windows.  The rain has fallen, and the sun is shining triumphantly over the glassy grass.  Thick air hangs on our minds.  Pulling our eyelashes to our cheeks and our chins to our hands.  We want to leave.  Our teacher recognizes this summer stubbornness, and surrenders to it.  

More Poetry...

Mist 

It settles on my face

covering the smell of pine.

Broken tear drops from escaped dreams

struggles long past

are brought back

by the clammy reminder

of  sorrow.  

Run Away

Not sure where to turn

whether to be perplexed.

Not sure if I'm going to run and hide

or take it like I should.

Shy way from the smile,

cringe at the glow.

Knowing the hypocrisy of it all

recognizing the inconstancy 

of falling. 

Behind

It began with a smile

a pat on the back.

I turned to find someone overlooked

the easiest laugh and a teaching mind.

You held in your hand a twisted umbrella.

Arm and arm we walked

so as to avoid the raindrops,

and when I talked

you listened.

I wish we could go back in time

to reach it.  

Saltines 

Stale crackers left,

forgotten in their packaging.

Left on the edge of the counter,

each time I pass by them

I wish that I had eaten at least one.

Then I do

and spit it out.

Too dry.

Caught

I rip the crinkly packaging

off my story

and put it in my mouth.

It melts so quickly away,

until all that is left

is the after taste

bitter and harsh

compared to the sharp sweetness 

of your story.

Inadvertent 

Mistakes made unawares

jokes turned sour.

Pretend that the roughness

has been smoothed over.

Smiles faked through the background

leaves begin to fall

each accident searing

permanence 

as if it had been forgotten.  

The Taste of Childhood

"Please."

the small voice rang

"daddy please can you get me a frosty?" 

before the smile reached his lips she knew

what words would come out.

It was their routine

"Spoiled"

he stated proudly,

pulling into the Wendy's drive through.

Such happiness was a hot afternoon

quenched with a joyful frosty.

Do not eat it to fast

or you will get a ice cream headache.

Don't forget the innocents of easy bliss

while you text your friends life's busy nothings.

Never wipe the halo form around your mouth

given to you by the gray, smooth frosty.

Never let him lose his proud smile.

Poetry... I know so interesting

The pull of secrets to this
empty page
the anticipation of an empty moment,
captured under a glass jar
like a spider,
and tossed outside.


I am a watermelon
sweet, more water than substance.
Red, bitter around the edges
cold and full.
Spit out the seeds.



Things we only knew
from our whispers.
Or from the tap of free rain.
Stories told around the campfire
while tilting to avoid smoke.
They sit in there glass cases
and stare out at the faces.
who never understand.