When I found poetry, I instantly fell in love. My eight-year old self couldn’t yet articulate the magic I could

feel as the words danced on the page. I knew that stories would bring me serenity but poetry saved my life.

I write because if I have but one chance to shine a little light into a dark world, then I must do so.

For love, for hope… to honor the wild mystic in us all.

“Be the author of your own story.” -Emily Tamayo Maher 

 

Winter Summer

 

I was born with a young heart wrapped in old bones

like yesterday

found a way

to sneak into tomorrow.

Purposely careless,

I’ve filled my bag

with their bad decisions

that littered the forest

in which I played.

Collecting once upon a times

from memories that weren’t mine.

Watching.

Waiting.

Wondering why

these humans cry wolf

when it’s the wolves that fed me.

I learned to keep my wild quiet.

dressed my savage in a suit and tie.

Shaved my claws,

sharpened my smile.

Became a sheep in wolves clothing.

A wise type of ignorance.

Skeptic enough to ask,

gullible enough to believe you.

Hard enough to leave,

soft enough to stay.

Kind enough to care,

cold enough to burn this bridge

to light the darkness in my way.

When I awoke from their dream

and found my own eyes

I saw myself ten feet tall

bursting like a birthing star

recycling the wake of the last.

Under the sun’s reign,

I become unnoticeable to the naked eye.

I shine a little brighter

when the moon hangs high.

I howl gratuitous cries

through still of the night.

My old bones know better

but my young heart still believes

there’s a way to fight with love,

to give passion a fist.

The stroke of my pen

says it exists;

remember the stories.

That’s all we are.

In these words, I am real.

I am human

dancing among star dust

with paws muddied

by the path

this earth tried to lay for me.

I am a cosmic anomaly,

an apostrophe,

a calm catastrophe.

I bring order to the chaos

Then, disassemble it

at my feet.

In the name science,

in the name of magic,

I have experienced a world

so beautifully tragic.

Or so tragically beautiful,

I can’t  decipher which.

My old bones should know better

But my young heart still wonders

 

 

-Winter Summer (4/28/22)