365 Poems in 2018: Week 8

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I took a bit of an impromptu social media hiatus this week. It may have been unplanned, but it was certainly needed. For all that I love the connections social media can foster, there can often be a lot of pressure to constantly produce and post amazing content. It can get exhausting, and every few weeks I need time to unplug and unwind and step back from that fast-paced, sometimes stressful cycle. 

The poems I wrote this week are among the shortest I've written for this project. I found myself jotting them down early in the morning or late at night, squeezing them in whenever I could grab a moment to get some words on paper. I don't have much to talk about regarding themes or inspirations. These poems, like most, come from daily life; from thoughts and feelings and experiences. 

And so, without further ado, please enjoy: A Year in Poetry 2018: Week Eight!

SAND CASTLES | February 19

I sift memories like sand,

build them into high-walled castles
with towers stretched to the sun

race the tide –

dig moats to keep them safe from
the roaring, raging sea – the waves
that push and pull,

ready to take them
and sweep them away.

IN SUMMERS | February 20

We wander back to sun-kissed summers,

beaches and pink wine;
red cups stuck in the sand like flags
claiming this land as our own – for the moment,

for the afternoon or evening
as the sky turns to pink, to purple,

as the stars blink awake and the moon
drags silver across the water,

and we light the night with bonfire flames,
and we talk as the smoke joins hands
with the stars,

as the sand gets cool, and then cold

and the summer drags on

into fall.

SUNBEAMS | February 21

I saw you in a sunbeam on a mountaintop,
reaching down into the valleys carved deep in the earth as if you might pluck something out, and I wondered what it might be that you asked the sun to help you touch. I saw you in golden light climbing down toward the horizon, pulling the night-sky curtain down slow, slow, slow. Blinking hazy on the green forest edge of the earth. And I didn’t want to leave because I didn’t want to lose you. But the world grew darker and you winked in that bright yellow ray and flickered over treetops and I raced back down that mountainside, following you. Following you.

And I think I might have missed you,
for when I reached the bottom I could not find you in the moon. The sun had taken you away, again. Pulled you across the sky and over oceans and how cruel it is that cosmos cannot just let us be. We have only daylight hours, clear-sky moments. And I will spend them chasing sunbeams over mountaintops, so that I can grab every glimpse of you.

WE WERE | February 22

We were morning coffees,
bittersweet – We were white
curtains and cotton sheets,
we were fog and open windows
and mist that hangs heavy -
We were all the things that
look beautiful in photo filters,
that all the classics waxed
poetic in those texts we read
in class – We were,

but not meant to be.


I have spent so long chasing tomorrows –

head high and starry eyed,
always reaching for page corners,
anxious to move on, move on, move on
to the next step, the next day,
the next –

turned a life of yesterdays,
and now each morning
I gulp down sunbeams

and try to learn
how to live

TRAIN CARS | February 24

I watch the world flash by
from a train car –

people smudged to blurs

train-track rattles and
buildings warp,
flags ripple in the wind;

as if time, too
along the track.

CITRUS | February 25

Orange peels,

citrus stuck on skin for hours -
essence of one cup
of morning tea,

the memories of this
hazy morning

for the day.