On Living – A Glimpse

The final preview of the poetry collection I’m drafting, these three poems are On Living – what will be the first section of the collection. This section focuses on how we experience life – as individuals or together – and the impacts others have on us, and those we have on ourselves.

Below is a glimpse into the section On Living…

Just a Body

You feel:
a blow to the side of your head,
the prick of a needle through your skin,
the wind blowing shards of ice against the back of your neck.
Your mind,
your thoughts,
your feelings
are tuned into your senses
– your body.

Your body
is your life.

But when that blow knocks you down
and you have the chance to study the rough grain of the dusty wood floor,
when the needle leaves you with a small pool of blood
and that numbing chill that spreads so quickly, like ice across still water,
when the wind has left you without warmth
and you’re left to wonder if the shards will at last cease to melt on your skin,
there comes a sneaking suspicion
– or possibly a lightning-strike epiphany
that, after all,
your body

is just a body.


That Moment

It’s when you walk out at midnight
wide awake because you need to pee
only to stop with a new urgency
to stand tall, tilt your head back
and take in all of the stars.
Just as you’re about to give in
as your leg begins to twitch
with your original purpose,
just as you start to look away,
you see the start of something
that catches your breath
– in a new way.
Stop and stare again
because there above is a pin prick
shooting its solemn way
from one horizon to the other,
making a journey that lasts only
two seconds, but seems
to have the longest of lives
as it seeps into your consciousness
and makes you forget everything
besides the wonder and majesty
of the possibilities that lie
waiting for you in the stars.
But what really makes you smile,
what grounds you once again,
is when you realize your neighbor
stands outside too, looking up
with his mouth slightly open
just like you.



Empty here,
I’m scraping
the jelly jar,
but the knife
comes up clean.
I want that sugar
like a dedicated
honeybee that can’t
find a flower.
Honey, I need
some nectar.
I need a journey.
Road trip with me
so we can trip
on the road
and come out
less than clean.
I’m empty here,
and searching –
for the plum
juice in my dead
Grandmother’s ice
chest, for the scent
of white pines
and the sight
of their fallen
gold needles,
for the warmth
of a cup of tea
on a chill autumn
day as my only
Memories: the air
in my jelly jar.
Empty, yet not.

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