Hannah

At my day job,
on the floor,
there sat a
grey, plastic bin
for Christmas donations.

The words
FOR HANNAH
60 Years Old
Size 9/10
were scribbled
in timid,
grey lead.

The bin was empty.

My eyes began to well up,
and I thought
"Poor Hannah."

Old, and Unfinished

It's the truth, I feel so far away. It's similar to the inescapable nature of my worst nightmare, but something deep inside of me lingers--a small shred of hope tugs at my heart and says that you could shake me. You, and only you could wake me up. My God, if I could only speak the syllables; if I could form this crazy mess of emotion into words that actually mean something to someone else, that they could intercept and take to heart--I mean really understand and accept--I'd be relieved, satisfied.

I need a release--I'm feeling like it's long past due. I fear I'm hoarding it all, like an old widow keeps dusty, photographs of a love that has lived and died. Faded like the photographs, she goes through the motions of life, missing what once was and feeling helpless in hoping in this silly, ungratifying way. Hopefully this is fleeting, I think to myself.

I would like to remind you of ethereal beauty and bliss, the unattainable attained, radiating throughout your one-track mind. I'd like to build another track like the ones under the trains that once carried me across this state, only this time, sturdy. I'd like to be indelible, engraved, pure, irreplaceable--it.

Always. I remember the words and how imprecise they were. There was so much more I needed to hear, and I can't help thinking that perhaps the door swung both ways.

I perseverate on the idea that there is more, that it's still there. All of it and more. We have just been too stubborn

to admit it.

Poise

My ballet slippers have aged;
The lace yellowed,
The bottoms torn.

They once fit me flawlessly,
My tiny feet empowered by these little slippers,
As I dreamt of being a pristine ballerina.

I yearned to be graceful,
And to point my toes just so.
I wanted so much to be dainty,
And raise my arms above my head like Clara.
I'd prettily twirl, all dressed in pink.
I could twirl for days and days.

My dream plummeted into the piano upon which the teacher was perched,
As she played Mozart and Bach.
I was clumsy, and my toes refused to stand up.
I could not hold my arms up like the other girls seemed to do so effortlessly.
Why? Why couldn't I be just like the ballerina in my jewelry box?

I twirl, clumsily, clumsily.
I dance in circles, round and round.
Quickly, like a carnival ride,
So my legs give out and I tumble,
And the room spins eternally, like I just got off of a carnival ride.
I am unstructured, undisciplined.

I am not a ballerina at all.

My Roses

I nurture endless rows of the reddest roses,
And attentively,
Carefully,
Meticulously,
I make sure that they thrive.

The products of my care and concern,
If they dwell in my garden,
They will never be at a loss.
They will always have what they need.

In the rare instance I cut one off of the vine,
It either wilted,
Or soaked up too many of my resources.

I will always wonder if it could have been saved,
Or just what it would have blossomed into.

MIscommunication- this is a work in progress

"Do I know you?" I inquired,

as his thin arms pulled me into an 

embrace; an embrace unfamiliar,

but an embrace I didn't think I disliked.

Embarrassed, he rescinded his arms back to his sides.

His aged eyes grew sullen,

my reaction robbed him of the cheer that was there just seconds before.

Nervous apologies spewed from his thin lips.

"It's okay," I said,

startled by the sudden burst of affection,

I couldn't think of the right thing to say

to assuage his embarrassment.

I got back in line and waited for my coffee.

I couldn't stop thinking about the old man

who thought he knew me.

Who was this person he mistook for me?

What was she like?

I noticed, out of the corner of my eye,

he was ashamed. He felt all eyes

on his back, I'm sure.

His face and the back of his neck were getting hot,

his glasses fogging up.

He looked downward, his hands folded,

the only way to keep it together.

"Carol!" he had exclaimed, "so good to see ya!

How have you been?"

But I was not Carol.

I was sorry for not being Carol. 

Deep down, I knew Carol is a real sweetheart--

a genuine, nurturing person--I was sure she would've know

exactly what to say in this situation.

And at this moment, waiting for my coffee, I wanted more than anything to be Carol.

As I left, I bid him good day--the only thing I had to offer

him as an apology.

The old man still embraced me just the same,

as if to say,

it's okay, 

I love you anyway.

Disorder

Perfect ringlets shine,

Strands coated in glass.

Expressive eyes meandering, 

For what?

A pair of fragile lips move,

Struggling to give reason to the clamor upstairs.

The words strained by the barricade--

The wall confining the brain, regulating the mouth.

A heart, oversized,

Longs to thrust its contents,

To spill itself forward,

To make itself known.

The lack of explanation befuddles bystanders,

Who know not what it all means.

And neither do I.