i think
and think
and think and think and think
and i plan poems while outside
walking with my good dog
and yet,
after pre-bed rituals,
and cajoling animals upstairs,
and leaving the video player window
on this here computer,
and entering the blank document space,
as soon as i’m ready
set
get to writing
all things
(and thinks)
have left
and i’m left
with
writing about writing about writing about writing about…
[you get the picture]
it’s getting close
to the end of the year
and i’m overwhelmed
by how much
and how little
happened this
twenty twenty-one.
~~~
wordplay
play with the
prefixes
suffixes
rhymes
(internal
and
external)
believe
in
beliefs
and skew slant down
to the ground
just to raise it up
let it rise
bake the pies
see with eyes
how silly words
can play just as well
and a scheme isn’t needed
as necessary as you well
know it
blow it
up
up
up
and let it fly
away.
~~~
let
Imperfection
sit.
the desire
to write;
it strikes!
~~~
shortest day of the year
is gone
it came and it went
(with such swiftness)
and now the days start to get longer
again,
and yet,
it starts here…
my slog
my sludge
my molasses of living
my fear
my anxiety
my processing darkness
why do the days feel so much darker
while they get brighter?
~~~
things that make me feel
exceptionally
more feminine:
roughed lips
curved hips
growing out the hair in my armpits.
things that make me feel
exceptionally
more masculine
tailored pants that somehow negate my curves
clenching my jaw until it changes the structure of my bones
imagining just the slightest bit of stubble on my chin
things that make me feel
exceptionally
non-binary:
just
being
me.
a few months ago
i was stricken
with the fact
that it was getting harder and harder for me
to read
detail.
as a person who thrives
on noticing the tiniest things
the fact that i’d started to skim
most posts/paragraphs/poems
alarmed me
greatly;
i thought it was my own fault,
that my brain was changing
with age,
or maybe writing my own poetry
meant i wasn’t paying attention to others’?
it felt wrong
and hypocritical
and about as un-hj as i could become
it wasn’t until
approximately
one month ago
when someone on
ye olde interwebs
(with a degree in psychology, mind you)
informed their viewers
that it’s ok if we’re all feeling
like it’s hard to concentrate
as of late,
as we are still going through
a global
pandemic/
panini/
patrick stewart/
panda express/
an entire global
trauma,
and we shouldn’t be too hard on ourselves.
so i’ll heed their advice,
and in those moments when i can find minute details,
i’ll treasure them with pride.
but until then,
i’ll try to skim twice
as to not miss anything important,
and not beat myself up about it
too too much.
je n’aime pas
le
shouting out into the ether
le
feeling like i’m one amongst a billion strangers
how have i never felt like i ‘found my community’
online?
[how had i never felt like i ‘found my community’
until last month?]
~~~
my brain
seems too be flowing
un-predictably
today.
~~~
early risers
may get the most done
earlier
but they may miss out on
important announcements
from the night owls
(unless…
unless
those night owls
make the announcements
the night before
the thing…)
what’s one more poetry-writing challenge
on top of this poetry-writing challenge?
(i guess
tomorrow morning
we’ll see!)
what to write about
what to ponder about
what to mull and meander in the mind?
~~~
[but] do i have a poem
to put
on my site
of poetries?
one from the beginning of todays’ mullings?
one from a day gone by?
no ideea…
what poems are
‘meant’
to come up
to blossom out
to emerge into fruition
full, tangible, edible fruit
of the creatively-writing tree
round your lips around them
digest them
feel them in your heart
but which
ones?
~~~
three short poems?
is that enough to quiet my inner capitalist
constantly telling me i’m not enough
unless i
produce
produce
produce?
rest is a thing
it’s a damn revelation
in a society that only supports
working oneself to the bone
burning the candle at both ends
living fast and
whooshing out
(and/but why the sudden need
desire
pull
to consume as well?
why do i just want to be looking at
vintage trousers
on etsy
and buying more gifts
for my spouse?
…’tis the season?)
apparently
it doesn’t fully feel like
‘the holidays’
until there’s some Trans-Siberian Orchestra
blasting out of my
tiny laptop
speakers.
~~~
all my ideas
fled my mind
the moment i sat down
to write
~~~
coffee
coffee
spread through me
awaken my speed,
my creativity,
my me
draped in my mom’s old sweater
struggling with the desire
to, instead of doing things all day,
simply watch others do things all day…
(maybe i just need some food first)
((turns out all i needed was food and a nap))
there’s an ache
in old poems
that i think i’ve lost…
the words falling out of my brain
hold in them a pain
of trying to find some sort of connective
tissue
through
to others in this stupid experiment we call
human
existence
and what happens when everything becomes
happenstance
what becomes of the worlds words once i built
brick by brick
letter by letter
when the better /half/ of me
plays into capitalism
to make our lives a bit
stabler
i read old
lines
older
stanzas
and a common thread appears
a subtle but strong undercurrent
to understand and be understood
(and might i still have that
now?)
kipventures 