Tearing down the last stage,
the last time
I spent as a board op
in college,
painting over memories
that cling to more than just the wings.

I adore metaphors-
They help me understand
The world and people-
And I have a beautiful one for you:

Being with you,
near you,
leaning on your shoulder
or cording my fingers through your hair,
it's all so wonderful.

It's sitting on a smooth rock,
reclining and relaxing,
that lies next to an old river
that's now a brook
murmuring quietly
as it winks down the mountain.
The trees have grown tall and strong-
Green leaves stretching wide-
so the sunlight dapples the earth.
The rock is warm from the sun,
and one could almost sleep,
made to feel safe
by the lullaby of the brook
and the rustling wind,
but everything is too beautiful
to miss.

My Best Friend

She is my campfire-
fiery of course-
but so much more.

She's the wildness of a flame,
flickering and flashing-
If you treat her right
and feed her well,
she grows strong and healthy-
Treat her poorly
and she'd wither away
or explode into an uncontrollable inferno.

She is the large campfire,
gathering a large crowd
laughing and drinking,
cooking amazing food-
or the little one,
with only a few close friends,
with smores
and wonderful conversation.

Concern,
I feel it probing
at the edges of my thoughts-
concern for me by me,
that I'm hardly sleeping,
struggling to find the motivation
to complete assignments
as I have other work to do-
theater work,
job work,
and relationships to build-
I've checked out of school,
and I think I need a weekend
to check back in.
So with the play
that means I have to survive
two more weeks
and then I can reset

All day
spent on stage,
in blacks,
and then I crawled home
to friends,
food,
and, eventually, you.

Weight,
pressing down,
almost crushing,
saying go faster
while your spine
feels like boulders
cracking across each other
and smashing into you and-

stop.

breathe.

take in air.
take in friends.

now shake out the tension.
refocus.
now put your shoulder to the grindstone
and go

It's so easy
for me to slip back
into the old habits
and the simple easiness
that is the stress of theater.

The first bouquet
Ever purchased for me
Out of romantic affection
Sit prominently in my house,
Primarily for my own enjoyment.

I will rest my eyes
On the rosy carnations
And smile with joy.

Two tracks of footprints
Meet in an empty parking lot
Covered with snow.
They circle each other,
A mess of two girls
Pacing
To keep themselves warm
As they talk of lacy things
And sushi.
The prints retreat,
Still pointed at the other,
Until distance and cold grow too much
And they twist around
To trace the way home.

Une Promesse à mon feu

Je te promets
    de ne jamais écrire
         et publier
         des poèmes quand
         je suis fâché
         à toi
    de protéger
         tes details personnels-
    de partager seulement ta beauté
    de te donner des mots-
         des mots qui sont les tiens -
         seulement à toi
         sauf quand j'ai ton permission

Tu es si beau,
si gentil,
si précieux,
et je veut te respecter.

J'ai beaucoup des mots
qui me plaident,
qui crient,
de voler à toi,
de chanter dans ton voix,
de danser dans tes yeux-

Ils deja commencent de m'échapper.
Donne-moi le temps d'être courageuse,
s'il te plaît,
de me souvenir que je peut te les donner,
et ils seront tous être les tiens.

A thimble,
a small little thing,
the first one
treasured
no matter its quality
for its the first
even if it unlocks
a waterfall of others-

It seems a new era
has dawned
for my writing -
a time of consideration
even for the simple practice poems

"I want to dance
at the tips of your fingers,
like a cigarette,"
entwining in and out
like a shadow or scarf -
falling and rising
with your own rhythm -
and once I've learned your dance,
I'll take your hand
and teach you mine.

Dance pushes itself
out of my bones
as much as the ink
that is my blood
threatens to break through
my all-too-mortal skin

Searching for words
to put together
in order
but not wanting to,
because this is not just mine,
and it is a fledgling
I refuse to pinion
with talking too much.
Silence isn't awkward,
but comfortable,
a mon avis anyway

Encircled,
defended,
side pressed to side,
grounded
in a moment of
joy

Keep calling me.
Please.
Don't let this song fade
When depart school.
I want it to be real;
I want it to be true.
I want something
As healthy as this parish
To keep me company,
To draw me forward,
So that I know it is You.
Please keep singing,
Even though I will not
Change my key this spring.

There are stars in the sky
begging to be named
and joy bubbling up out of me
that I can't quite get the right words
to express when I want them.