365 Poems in 2018: Week 3

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This week's trend appeared to be last-minute poetry. I found myself scrawling these in the moonlight, pulling words through the fog of my exhaustion before I tucked away my notebook and finally fell asleep. 

It's not that I didn't want to write. In fact, I found myself more inspired this week than I have been in months (predominately thanks to watching Hugh Jackman return to the realm of showtune in The Greatest Showman this past Thursday - I haven't turned off the soundtrack since!). I think I just got so wrapped up in planning other projects that this poem-a-day challenge almost became an afterthought. 

I have to say, one of the most interesting things about this challenge so far has been seeing how my approach to it changes from week to week. It's only week three, but already I've had three vastly different experiences: unbridled excitement and overflowing words, difficulty in spitting out even a few lines each day, and a nightly scramble to finish a piece before falling asleep. I'm both curious and excited to see how the next forty-nine weeks.

And now I present to you: A Year in Poetry 2018: Week Three!

SIX FEET DOWN | January 15

I have spent far too long looking six feet down,

hands a mess
with moss and dirt,
grass root and
wilted roses.

I had an idea: 
that I might leave my heart with you,
because it missed you,
and perhaps my eyes,
because they cried for you,
and my ears,
so that they could hear your voice again.

My tongue still longs to speak to you,
so I suppose I’d leave that, too.

Shed pieces of myself like snakeskin
and bury them with you.
Arms, so they might hug you.
Legs, to walk with you.
Hands, to hold yours.

I would crawl out a baseless thing,
blind and deaf and mute,
and maybe then the world would see
how I feel without you.

I have pulled up six feet of earth,
but oddly - strangely - confusingly
I did not find you there.


Eyes raised to empty sky,
and the wind, it seems, has left the air,
run off searching for silver light
absent now

it seems the moon
misses you, too.


Blue bleeds back into the sky,

the sun raises its eyes
and bids the moon goodnight
as she pulls her velvet curtain
across the ocean, 
tucks herself
below the horizon
until the purple evening
calls her home.


There are things that I need you to know,
though I do not know how to say them

so will ask the sky to write them in stars,
for I know how you love the night -

how you search for stories in constellations;
so I will plant my heart among them,

let it beat my words in thunder claps,
and when the thunder shakes you, you will know.

COUNTDOWN | January 19

one: a breath long held at last expelled, and it moves waves across the sound, and it shakes trees and tosses their leaves to the ground and down the trails we once walked, and once got lost, or once were found - i cannot recall which. 

two: eyes to sky and hands to the stars, gathering constellations and sipping stardust from cupped palms, filling your belly with the cosmos and singing songs to the moon, like we did on that night when we were lost and found at once and asked her silver light to guide us home.

three: you fold yourself under the cover of the night, melt into the shadows that dance beneath swaying trees, with stars in your veins and the wind in your lungs, and the ocean waves chasing after you, and you are lost and found like we were that night, and you are lost and found beneath the moon’s silver light.

SILENCE | January 20

I let silence stretch longer now
if only to hear you in it.

Though I haven’t yet-
each time it falls I let the quiet linger,
and will your voice to find me;

so far all I have heard
is my own heartbeat.


The moon has looked less lonely as of late;

the stars, brighter
and the sky more full-

though down here the world has felt
since you left,

I think the heavens are glad
to have you home.