Saturday, September 3, 2016

I am my own robot bodyguard

I am my own robot bodyguard:


When you are away, I feel like a dog.
I whine, I cry on cue, like a preprogrammed robot.
I do everything to impress you: I backflip,
through the house, knocking over your novels
like a demented gatekeeper
to a future argument and attack.

The future attack
will be verbal, because I’m not a dog
who does not know better. I am the gatekeeper
to your happiness, so I’m told. A robot
meant to be logical, not whine like a woman in a novel.
I should not be prone to backflips.

But the urge inside me is to backflip,
and so I shrink from your attack,
hiding behind a novel,
wishing I owned an actual dog
to protect me.  Or a robot
bodyguard; my imaginary liberations’ gatekeeper.

Then one day, I meet a different kind of gatekeeper.
I saw a shabby moth with torn wings doing backflips
through the air, unlike any robot
and suddenly I wanted to attack
my own life. My desire for a guard dog
vanished, and so did my hiding place in novels.

Fear filled me, and a novel
idea. Gatekeepers,
dogs,
backflips;
I don’t need them. I can attack
my situation without an army of robots.

Like an emotionless robot gatekeeper, I fled,
taking only my novels, I back flipped away.

I’ll not be attacked again, and I’m sure as hell adopting a dog.


~



** Also not about me. 

The problem with knights

The problem with knights:


The time I’ve waited feels like a lifetime.
The time I’ve spent I could have been reading
The wine will flow while sitting on the porch,
turning dusk into an enchanted forest.
It’s not like this is real, the dark and the knights.
I guess I need to tell my family.

The thing about telling my family
is that normally this information takes a lifetime.
Normally, it takes an army of knights,
chivalrous men with brains full of reading,
to infiltrate the forest
of their minds, the safety of the porch.

That safety is important; sitting on the porch,
outside, yet still in. The family
can traverse the enchanted forest,
can spend a lifetime
reading
about knights.

But the problem with knights
is that they don’t exist anymore. The porch
life, safe inside reading,
may be well and good for the family,
but not for me. In my lifetime,
I want the forest.

So I sit here in the forest,
waiting, but not for knights.
Not for an enchanted lifetime,
not for a cozy porch,
but for you, my family,
who taught me to love reading.

I love reading about knights, yes,
but I don’t need one to get me out of the forest, to your porch.

Family, I love you, but I want a real-life lifetime.




~


** This is about a person who does not believe in the same things as their family. This is not about me or my family, incase anyone was wondering. 

** This is also a sad attempt to finish a poetry challenge that my friend Rebecca and I set forth to do together in the month of August. Same challenge we have done before - list of words, write a poem every day based on the 'word of the day' sort of thing- but this month we both ended up very behind. Thus the sestina- best way to use a bunch of random words all in one place. Although I do recognize that this is not the point of sestinas. 


Sunday, August 21, 2016

Bullet Point

Bullet Point 


Bullet point pen, I
love the sensation of your
words, your scratch and stroke.





Rocking Chair

Rocking Chair 

We used to make forts in our room out of anything we could find. Pushed our beds closer together, draped a sheet across their frames, a rocking chair serving as an unstable wall. From the fort we would run strings, connecting the corners of the room so our toys never had to touch the ground. The tiny world in the sky at our eye level, rocking with the chair, adding a bit of danger with a comforting object. I always wondered why rocking chairs were so nice, why we enjoyed the sensation of rocking when in reality rocking is just falling. I watched our tiny world rock, fall, and then catch and then fall again, and my 6 year old self wondered why we find comfort in falling.







Cowboy

Cowboy


Cowboy, I’ve always loved you.
From your image on my childhood bed sheets,
playing your guitar for the Indian woman and her baby,
I saw your sensitive side.
When we went out west on a month long family trip,
I saw you everywhere.
In the shuffle of old leather boots and the warmth of denim.
I bought a cowboy hat so I could be closer to you.
And now I’m grown, and you’re still here,
or there in my imagination.
You ride up to my office door,
lasso a man on a Segway and you call to me.
After all these years, you’ve not changed one bit.
I reach for your stubbled face and try to wipe the prairie dirt off your cheek,
but only leave a smear.
Your green eyes lock onto me and you are suddenly much more real than my bed sheets.
Pulling me close my skin collides with your long sleeves,
your too-warm-for-this-August-heat outfit,
and you remind me why it’s important to daydream.
I rip a slit in my pencil skirt and you hoist me onto your horse and we’re off.
I wonder when you’ll play your guitar for me,

and when I’ll ever be back again.




Molasses

Molasses 

My mom cooks with molasses
as a substitute for something.
I can't remember what, but I
know it's probably because of
my brother, somehow. Family
sticky sweetness, for unknown
reasons.



Paris

Paris 


Museums vs walking
History vs coffee
Architecture vs street art