One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Open window

birds fly past

fleeting, greeting,

coo, coo

one flew

just out of my grasp

chirping hello

to the other it met

why isn’t there anyone

to tweet

that to me?

As I emptied the shed...

As I emptied the shed

I watched the couples,

 passers-by with hands

so hard and hollow

they could hold more

than mine.

The Understanding of a Poem

I don’t know where

you are

god-

forsaken

allusive

meaning

I have found

you in

her eyes

and his hands

great and strong

you are done

everything

I have searched

you out

groping, grasping

I have worked

hard, hoping

you will come

into focus

you have been

found

in distant lands

literature, hidden

in html

I don’t know where

you are

god-

forsaken

allusive

you

don’t know what

I’ll do when I

find you.

Fog

The fog is lifting. Finally. I had begun to believe that it would be with me forever.

As the fog recedes, the clouds linger in the sky, gray and frowning as if they’re not done, haven’t shed enough tears on us yet. The thickness of their confusion hangs in the air and it’s that kind of humidity that sticks to you, gets inside of you so that no matter where you go or how you try to escape it, it’s there, latched onto you, almost murderous in its insistence.

So of course it’s one of those kinds of days, the days when I feel entrapped in my own skin, not to mention in my own home – one of those days where you dream of obliterating your soul and excommunicating your heart. And all I can say is, thank God the fog is gone.

Have you ever had one of those days?

Today, I want to run. Or hide. Or both, even, simultaneously, if only it were possible. I’ve somehow managed to lodge myself in the one-foot-and-however-many-inches of space between my bed and my desk, and who knows if I can get out again, but it doesn’t really matter because nobody can see me here and they’ll all leave me alone while I attempt to purge my entire being of these feelings, the ones I can’t describe but make you feel too full and absolutely vacant at the same time.

There’s that damn fog again, creeping in as though if it moves slowly enough, I won’t notice it, won’t recognize that it had only gone on a brief coffee break and has now returned for me. I crush my eyes shut, vainly attempting to pull myself inside myself, hoping against hope that if I contract enough muscles and pull in enough limbs, the fog won’t see me, won’t know I’m here, will let me get on with life and won’t descend upon me once again.

And now I realize how stupid it was to trap myself here, in this minuscule space where nobody can see me, nobody, that is, except the fog. I reach a hand towards my face, to wipe away the tears that I suppose I’ve been crying this entire time. The fog sees my weakness and plunges towards me again, no longer shy but back in full force, in control of me. It penetrates me, filling me with an emptiness, the kind of emptiness you welcome when you’re as broken as I am.

We Miss the Beauty that's Already in Our Hands

As we age, we grow inconsiderate of the under-appreciated attributes of life.

Like day-dreaming. I realized today that it's been longer than I can remember since I lay in bed, just awakening or on my way to sleep, and created a fantasy story to comfort, enjoy, or simply amuse myself. I will re-embrace this beauty.

Playing pretend. We do it so well in our minds, to ourselves, but we get "too old" to "play house". I would like to re-embrace this, but I'm not sure if I know how.

Smiling and being amused by every little, simple thing. I think I find this through children; they make me beam and glow with joy. I love babies, children, people....

Yourself. There was a time when I didn't care about how thin my thighs were, how flat and taut my stomach was, or whether my clothes were flattering...when we "grow up", we learn not to love ourselves the way we are.

These are the under-appreciated things I hope to recapture.