more sadness

this picture is supposed to be a little girl, but she ended up looking older than she actually was. so sad. but i'm still pretty happy with it.

here is the other poem i wrote while i was in hospital.

i feel

i feel

like a hollowed out tunnel,

blasted apart. maybe this

could be a time of

cleansing. or a time of

trials.

am i being forced

through the eye of a needle, to be

something else on the other

side? ordered. orderly.

straightened and true.

oooops

i just got back from the hospital.

i tried to kill myself. overdosed. 20 seroquel.

i wrote a poem about it and i'll share that. but other than that i'm not sure what to say. even though they say i've got a lot to say. hmmmm....

remembering

i remember bursts of noise,

skipping scenes of questions, "beth,

beth, what's this? what's that?"

i remember pain and

chaos.

i don't remember how bad

it was. how dangerous it got.

i don't remember them taking

my clothes. of moving from

ambulance to er, from er to

icu.

i don't want to remember why. or

how.

i remember taking the

pills. i remember that. but

i don't remember the

point. the reason escapes

me.

i don't remember why i

called the ambulance. why i

didn't just go blinking

into the dark. the in-

between.

i remember the big

reasons. the shame. the

guilt. but not the little

ones.

how did i let it go

so far?

i don't remember why

i didn't wake my family.

why didn't i call them

instead of emergency?

how close did i come?

how far did i go? how

close. how far. how timid

i am. how tired i am.

i don't remember waking.

i don't remember sleeping.

i don't remember anything.

sad again

summers over, now. so i'm getting sad again. and my wonderful weekend with valette has come and gone and she is back in anchorage. so sad. it's been a long fall, so that's been cool. no snow yet, but i *know* it's time for the long goodnight and that's just bumming me out.

we've got about six bazaars lined up for the season. we had great success at farmers market this summer, which turned out to be loads of fun. i like the culture of the market, setting up next to the same people every week and buying vegetables from the same vendors each time. i'll miss the commrederie of it over the winter. i'm looking forward to saturdays off in january, when bazaar season is over.

my cat, nene, is getting more settled with the extra people in the house. she actually let jake pet her the other day. yay!

here's an untitled poem.

in the last days of
summer, spires of spent snapdragons
rise, holding tight to their blossoms
of burnt popcorn, high above the brown
carpet of pansies in my garden. ladybugs
nestle amidst the leaves, bedding down for winter.

my window

there's a window in my room,
square and small,
sized just for one. it looks
out onto sloping grass,
growing long in the hazy
months of eternal summer.

it's a thinking window,
made for contemplation.
in a cozy curled up
position, i can see
further than the view allows

baggage

so we're driving through nebraska
silver trees and fields of corn
flashing past like someone's
memory of how it used to be.
and it's raining like confetti
when someone's born or marilyn
monroe comes to town. and
we're arguing again.
i can't remember what
it's all about anymore.

and i remember when we
couldn't hold each other
long enough. when the world
was the sky and you loved me.
there's a lake to the right of us,
it's surface pocked by rain.
did you notice it? how long
has it been since you've noticed
me? the sun is setting in front of us.
brilliant orange and red. behind
us the sky is violet. you don't
ask why i'm looking back.

two poems

she is

you are a poet in the quiet
moments, a whittler of
words, slowly paring down
to the meaning of it. don't

silence your voice with the busyness,
errands and agendas of little
consequence that will
or won't get done. breathe
and it is of more importance
than anything else you've ever done.



falling

this is my dream; i'm walking
down a corridor and i'm alone.
truly alone. there's the sound of my
feet padding across the tiled floor
and then nothing. silence like
gravity. it becomes black.
and i think of you.

but i'm not falling in
love with you, you so far away and
perfect in that distance. with
your details blurred like memory or a good
monet. and i keep filling in your
features, or weak spots, as if
i'm dreaming you in to existence.

sin

sin

there is a strange unity in moonlight.
everything equal and alien, familiar landmarks made
unknown and distant. untrustable are my eyes as the house
becomes an icon, luminous, precise,
weighty. i am in danger of slowing. looking too closely. seeing
what is not there. there

is signifigance where you are but i
conceal my heart like a ghost, flickering,
bewildered by this fall towards you. fear keeps me far from
letting go. i refuse to see. appearances deceive.
do you lie as you look at me? or is it me lying to you? unreliable,
my heart, leading me down passages foreign, you at the end,
smiling your distant smile, holding truth in your fist like money.

winter

winter

yesterday was desperation.
flicker close, quicken me.
break my soul, touch my
false belief.
remember sorrow.
tear past this fake
emotion. compel me to
feel, to fight, to win.
destroy this winter.

speaking in tongues

speaking in tongues

my mouth
says things i don't
intend to say. it's
an artesian well, springing
forth with pressure from
some unknown
source. stop
this clumsy
tongue. save stupidity
for another day.

stages

stages

can i believe your skin as you
kiss, price of smooth perfection.
excessive love moving me. desire

like death, dying. you're too far from me. endless.
your love like branches of a shifting
wind destroys the hot surface. essence.
pillow of sky

concealing dark rules. indifferent
your due, marking me. rusting
dreams. broken kiss forgotten.
pale emotion leaves you bare. alone.
i've already left. maybe i didn't believe enough.

want

want

quicken my small heart.
desire for something
more pulls me onward.
valleys fall before me.
my languid grasp lets loose
the wrong thing. winds
tug me off course, alone.

island

island

i hide my heart, so safe
from pain. rough
years of secret dreams.
moonlight searching for life.
one hundred lies hide my skin
my spirit my eyes. shallow
dancer giving nothing,
feeling nothing.

after

i wrote this poem in response to the shootings at wedgewood baptist church, which accured about a year after the columbine shootings. this one struck me hard because i *knew* people that were going to this church for the youth gathering in which the shootings accured, they were just running late.

after

i'm looking at a picture.
a picture of a girl, a young
woman on the verge
of change, on the cusp
of becoming, who should be concerned only
with what movie to see, what boy
to date, what dress
to wear to the prom. instead,
she's shaking like her bones
have turned to leaves or sheaves
of paper. like she'll never
feel summer again.

it's bright in this picture. the sun is low
and hard in the texas sky. she is still
shaking, waiting for everything
to make sense, for the world,
her quiet safe world, to comfort her.
waiting for someone to say it will be
okay. an older woman is in the picture,
talking to someone outside of the frame,
her back to the girl.
i want to say, "turn
around, look at her, hold her, rub her
back, run your hand over her hair. you're
an adult. make sense of this. make her feel
safe again." that's what she needs. what

i need. what we all need. some order. some explanation. line
up the causes clearly, a matched set
of green glass bowls, tidy and honest.
i look at this picture so long my eyes
burn. i can't make the woman turn
to face the girl. i can't make sense of it.
i can't get it out of my head.

sister

sister

i'm walking down the hallway, past
doors leading into rooms which hold failing
lives, silent televisions and mint green
blankets which never seem warm enough. i'm

waiting for news on you, holding my
breath and coffee, careful not to spill
my heart as i avert my eyes away from
someone leaning against the wall. a doctor
is paged by a bored and boring voice. i'm willing

you okay, wishing back the hours and years,
hoping for a better outcome than what
might be expected. it's strange, walking these
carpeted floors with matching carpeted walls, like
they weren't sure which way was up.

leaving

leaving

this valley of sin,
draining my shallow love,
like secret reflections
hard and cold. try to
smooth and soften and
warm this slim heart.
you hold tight
to these shifting winds.
flame like remembrance
of life, illuminating missed
steps, lost words. i loose
this desperate ocean.

sunday's poem

cleaning

he found the nest
of annie's nylons in the back
of the top left hand drawer when he
was clearing out the bedroom.
he sat on a chair, the wad
in his hands. they stopped
his momentum more forcefully
than any of her other things. more than the books
papers sweaters lipsticks shampoos music.
the nylons recalled the intimate shape of her legs.
the way she would walk. sometimes
it had been hard to know where her body
left off and his had begun. it was even harder now
that she wasn't here to remind him
where his skin met the air.

more poetry

she is

you are a poet in the quiet
moments, a whittler of
words, slowly paring down
to the meaning of it. don't

silence your voice with the busy-ness,
errands and agendas of little
consequence that will
or won't get done. breathe
and it is of more importance
than anything else you've ever done.


falling

this is my dream; i'm walking
down a corridor and i'm alone.
truly alone. there's the sound of my
feet padding across the tiled floor
and then nothing. silence like
gravity. it becomes black.
and i think of you.

but i'm not falling in
love with you, you so far away and
perfect in that distance. with
your details blurred like memory or a good
monet. and i keep filling in your
features, or weak spots, as if
i'm dreaming you in to existence.


yesterday morning

i am not a perfect memory, not so tidy you can
squish me in a picture book with a caption
telling everyone that i was once owned
by you. not so easily forgotten that you could
pass me by on the street like a beggar holding
out his hand for whatever it is you won't give.
not so carelessly classified; a good kisser, the best
blow-job, the least demanding. i will refuse to be
tossed out with the morning paper, the coffee grinds, the inevitable
grapefruit rind. you, in your small routine, will want to.

onya

onya

she lives in a small apartment on the top
floor of a squarish ancient building. the paint
on the outside was once white but is crackling
now, as if there was something alive under there,
trying to break free. she does not look at it much.
prefers the flickering lights of rented movies
on her tv screen. there she slips into the stories,
imagines she too has a glossy, proofed life.
the boring parts edited out. she has a job at jake's
grill, serving the customers without seeing them.
jake likes to try to get her on her back but she
floats off, is cleopatra on the banks of the nile
and it's no fun to force himself on someone
who isn't even there. in her apartment she showers,
does not shave. does not cut any hair on her body.
doesn't want anyone to find those little bits of her
so she burns the cut toenails and fingernails, an acrid
horrid smell she suffers through to protect
herself. watches her movies and stays up till
four in the morning. gets up at eleven. to work
at one. drops off videos and rents more on the way
back to her apartment. imagines she
is conan's queen as she crosses a busy street.

false comfort

false comfort

soft cat curl warm against my leg,
a false comfort. moonlight shifting
across your taut body.
purpose whispers like cold memory
holding me just this close,
like a branch of the sky.
air like secret doom.

your love was something perfect forever,
but this distance leaves me behind,
so much wind. distant and hard,
tearing me away.


distance

tonight i bleed
a path to sorrow.
pain through consequence,
dust in my hands.
choice like a lie.
you bewilder me with
your heavy signifigance.
try to fail,
sliding past absolute solitude.
you glow like kindred fire.

refusing to let go of it

refusing to let go of it

you are like a broken
rhythm, distant strained hesitant.
pervasive but forgettable. like
the scratch of a 48 stopping
stopping
stopping
right before it gets good, before
it gets interesting. you hide
behind your blonde hair and loud
voice, hoping no one will bother
to look deeper, into
the fear lighting the back
of your eyes, a bit of truth
in the midst of fabrication, hurting
no one but yourself.

you seem to think if you ignore
it, it
will go away, a dream of someone
else's life. i'm tired
of your lies, your anger.

look deeper. the anger
is for someone else, for you
and him, for then. move on.
don't let them take even more.