Wished-for child, one of these mornings
you’ll awake to a different light: one that listens
without speaking and acts without a sound.
These words and gestures so long demonstrated
loudly, though fragile, will soon be replaced
with a soft and constant refrain of peace.

Bitterly wished-for child, one of these evenings
you’ll rise up to speak without fear, and
your hands will rest at your sides. We will see
in you and see you: not as a working of our
exaggerated minds, but as the truth.
You are believed. And you are beloved.

//

I never asked to be healed from my bitterness;
only that those who see it will look to the past,
blending the roots together with earth tones.

Woebegone.

Woebegone, the single symbol on the table
& our rotund laughter sounds out the word:
a sepia echo, conjuring images of yore &
macramé wreckage in the roadside ditch
—what can match it? a final breath, ceased
or fragments of a voice that never spoke,
realizations of ego misplaced from reality:
sullen sacks of loam dumped from carts—
irritations stepped over in the street whilst
we compulsively snack on jejune worries,
using our steep myopia to avoid metanoia—
revivals are for ones who read upside down
and construe the scrambled lines as certain.
Woebegone, the ochre depiction of suffrage
& our graying cacology neglects the nuance
—how to convey a meaningless ache?
Encryptions only point to the carver’s hand,
raw umber in its appeal, but its ethos is cold,
words that no longer respire but for display,
insouciant fixtures of our terminal languor.

 

 

 

 

Memories.

I see my chubby face in the glass
when my mother holds me up,
resting my knees on the counter;
evening light brightens this face
which I have never seen before:
my eyes are big and my nose is
round and my head is wispy and—

I see my mother in the mirror
behind me and I want to ask why
she has hair and I don’t have any.

I always thought you were so handsome,
floating alone in the open river: your hands
behind your head in the mossy shade of the
bear’s coat, the forest standing at attention
waiting for you to speak, hushed to hear
your soft voice, but you were always silent.
I, too, waited for a gesture, willing to walk
across the water with timid feet and clamor
into your boat, and row with the rusty oars
—these calloused hands wouldn’t mind—
and steer to the mouth where the salmon
swarm in skews beneath the glossy ink, but
your eyes are closed and I cannot utter
loudly enough to wake you, so I slip away
back into the woods from which I came,
where the hum of the bees about the nests
cover the sounds of my own heaving sighs.

 

I Convince.

I convince: strains in the violin’s throat, grating bow against the strings
pulling on an overcoat slightly too large and fumbling with the buttons
hands shaky with the trembling ensemble and clicking keyboard squares
aching for recognition from the silhouettes nodding off by the stereo.

I deny: gridding increments of time into dusty panes that I make known
as better, not considering the closed curtains sewn with diligence in
rooms where painted presidents reside in listless aptitude and leather
chairs, motionless as cellos swell in meager discord inching to forever.

 

Hateful lies exposed in the sea foam
bathing in the illegitimate shallows
in open view where everyone walks
and no one ever seems to notice
but I stumble over her knobby knees
we broadcast conflicting frequencies
and I pick up all her sloppy signals:
rubbish strewn down the shoreline
and I clean up after her, anguished
but I can never leave her alone
I am her mother, who birthed her—
a pristine concept, clean and plain
breaths of saltwater wind but I could
not stop her growing tangled hair
we cannot control what we conceive

I seek a different song—
one that has not been found;
I wait for a melody to come
but cannot find my own.

I listen in the night
when the moon is vibrant
and deer dance in the open;
hooves meet with alpine air
and do not make a sound.

I watch the sunrise burn—
wind chimes play to dry heat,
their jumbled cadence aimless,
fading to the sky.
I struggle to capture them,
cage them in rows and lines.

I listen to the past
wistfully,
remembering songs of
monks and jazz musicians
who found the storehouses
and claimed them.

Perhaps the world
will give no more.

A body is still a body no matter what the soul is wearing
when you want me to be here but leave at the same time
and I do not understand if I am doing one, both or neither;
coffee shop conspiracies cannot connect the meaning
conveyed in these circular and silent articulations; aware,
I catch myself staring again, too desensitized to turn away
my wide open eyes fully knowing it is rude in this place;
steely blue irises more intrusive than deep russet puddles;
though my crow’s feet are kind and my mouth is smiling,
a body is still a body no matter what the soul was wearing.

 

 

Night Walk.

The horses are sleeping;
big black lumps in the field
beneath the yellow half moon.

I sigh, my curly breath puffing,
evaporating against crisp stars.
I tread in dark places where
I see only pin pricks of light
and tomorrow’s happenings
are a big black lump.

Worry curls from my teeth
and disappears,
an anxious offering
to the moon.

The moon accepts,
and comforts.
I am warmed.

Greetings, Hi and Hello.

Since I’ve taken to posting copious amounts of poetry and my followers have doubled in the last month, I thought I’d take some time to write a bit more candidly about who I am.

So hello! My name is Mary, and I’m a 23-year-old writer and wanderer and I have no idea what I’m doing with my life. I currently reside near Portland, Oregon in the U.S. but recently returned from traveling in India and Australia. It was the best of times and worst of times, or something like that. I have written some creative pieces already about my journey and will be writing more.

I have my Bachelor of Arts in English and Writing, hence why I have no idea what I’m doing with my life, and am currently working toward developing my writing skills and actively seeking to get published. I’ve most recently taken to writing poetry and creative non-fiction, but my dream is to publish children’s fiction (particularly for middle readers) and I currently have a novel outlined and a rough draft written. When I’m not writing I’m most likely looking at dumb things on the internet, walking, at Goodwill or fueling my tim-tam addiction.

I originally began this blog with the intent of writing about my Synesthesia, a brain condition that mixes senses so that I see a color for each letter and number. I want to learn more about how my brain functions and how Synesthesia influences my creativity and writing. You can read more on the about page: About Synesthesia.

I’ve been redoing my blog, making it more accessible and such. You can find my creative writing archived under the Prose and Poetry pages at the top. All rights reserved, of course. My goal is to become better at blogging and networking, since I admittedly have no idea what I’m doing. My hope is to make changes for the better, improve my writing, improve my skills and meet new people.

If you would like me to check out your blog, I will gladly do so.

Thank you and happy reading!