Blush - Typewriter Poem

So I decided to try a write a poem in the style of Tyler Knott. www.tylerknott.com This was the result.

Favorite First - 100 words

As time came to close on our impromptu rendezvous I grew anxious, waiting, anticipating. Thirteen minutes then fourteen, time to part ways; a hug you wanted so I obliged, leaning into your embrace.

Then, your eyes met my gaze, and shortly there after the warmth of your lips pulsed through mine.

Warp speed freeze frames of synchronized motion, steam rising off our bodies pressed against the cold steel.

A few seconds forever engrained, your lip in mine as we slowly parted ways. An abrupt end to our fifteen minutes of fame, my heart beating thrice with every step you take. 

Self Portrait

In the process of reflection,

I’ve stretched and pulled apart,

Dissected and peeled away,

Layers and layers of filth.

The thoughts that flutter in and out my waking consciousness have now been color-coded and categorized,

Placed in their corresponding corners of the ever expanding catacombs of my mind.

I have watched hesitantly as they are pushed through the tight mesh of the flour sifter,

Falling, individually, to be seen, no longer clumped together in a mess of uncertainty.

One might think this produces clarity,

one might assume conclusions have been drawn.

Yet, I leave the board in a stalemate.

Nothing gained or lost. A defeat in a way.

I expected to feel better, justified even.

However the files that grow fatter are not the ones of merit,

Bitterness, shame, guilt, selfishness, pride,

The subcategories under “Bad Things I Do Well”

I feel less than justified, a little more ragged than before,

And for that I have reason to hope.

“When a man is getting better he understands more and more clearly the evil that is still left in him. When a man is getting worse he understands his own badness less and less.”  - C.S. Lewis

14. Block

It’s a process, you know?

The pen scratches against the beloved yellow legal pad; two sentences in, hastily ripping the marred sheet away to reveal the next. Then, crumpling aforementioned sheet into non-aerodynamic ball to be sent flying across the room towards trash bin half-full of identical counterparts.

Start over with brilliant first line inspired by real emotion and promptly get lost in said emotion for so long that words no longer come and the thought of attempting to articulate is mildly overwhelming.

Repeat process. New topic, and here is where I’m found. Writer’s block, an explanation for the hiatus. 

13. Planes

I watched, listlessly, as the planes took off and landed, their jet streams billowing and slowly dissipating across the sky in the city that never sleeps.

I found it interestingly beautiful, the criss-crossing patterns in every direction momentarily painting the clear blue sky.

It’s fascinating that something as fundamentally ugly as pollution could delight the senses in such an aesthetically pleasing way.

Then I thought that it is not so different from anything else. I’m constantly dressing up the ugly and presenting it as beauty. 

The temporary beauty always dissipates leaving behind an invisible trail of pollution, in essence, ruin.  

12. Managing Miles

It’s a tragedy, these fissures and voids that lie between.

I hate that it isn’t simple, that my arms can’t reach, can’t cover the gap, can’t wrap around in times of need.

We’re left to maneuver the open lines of communication.

But alas, letters and phone calls don’t satisfy my imagination.

I’d rather it be that we are settled comfortably in sections of our fictional fort built with blankets and chairs.

In my favorite version of managing the miles, the giggles and secrets and everything else vibrate across the expanse of string attached to the empty can against my ear. 

11. A Novel Idea

The little bell that jingles when I walk through the door always makes me feel invited, and even though I don’t like cats I tolerate Emerson’s affectionate nuzzle against my leg.

“Maybe I’ll revisit Emerson today, Ralph Waldo that is, or maybe Thoreau, or Steinbeck, or some other classic literature giant,” I thought as I ran my fingers over the stacks of cracked spines.

No matter how often I read them, I will not tire of the eloquence in East of Eden, Walden Pond, Self-Reliance.

You see, they make me feel more my age; these persuasive men, these yellowed pages. 

10. In A Cappella

There are few things that make me more insecure than hearing the noise of my own voice unaccompanied by a melodious symphony of sounds.

So, when the band ceased the playing of their instruments on Sunday and continued with an A cappella chorus, I paused momentarily, unsure with my voice no longer camouflaged by the thick reverberation from the speakers.

That was, until I heard the most beautiful cacophony of sounds. Voices high and low, on key and off; my brothers and sisters singing in perfect union; so, I unabashedly joined in…

.. Nothing compares to this love, love, love…

9. Textured Language

Try as I might to decipher the languages placed before me on a daily basis, I’m constantly getting lost in the heady, dense jargon of my fellow scientists and thick, sugar-coated mess of the overtly Christian conversations in which I often partake. I attempt but even falter in the disciplines of icy slander and abrasive sarcasm. 

However, I never lose my way in the simple fluidity of a warm embrace; there isn't confusion in unblemished, selfless service. As imperfect as it may or may not be, my heart always beats in sync with the soft spoken sentiment, I love you. 

‎"Language, imperfect as it may be, is the realizer of our world. It is the texture of our thoughts."

Juxtaposition

A slightly labored breath escaped the tiny mouth of the newborn baby boy I cradled gently in the crevasse of my arms. “You’ll figure it out little buddy,” I thought as I realized how strange it must be to learn something like breathing. Weird and wonderful to think that 48 hours prior breathing wasn’t even on his radar. When his tiny wrinkled hand slipped around my finger and gripped it tightly, the progression of my thoughts went somewhere I wasn’t expecting. Time warped into a different hospital room with an equally wrinkled hand wrapped tightly around mine, all fingers inter woven.

His breaths were labored also but not because it was a new phenomenon.  No, as he reached his final cap, his allotted number so to speak each one became more exerted, deliberate, and full of intention. “You’ll figure it out grandpa,” I thought, as I realized how strange it must be for him to begin to fully know that time is short, finite here.

The juxtaposition is eerily similar for me. I remember tracing the lines of their faces with my eyes, taking in each feature, trying desperately to etch the gravity of the situation in my mind forever because moments like these don’t just happen every day. Feeling my heart swollen with emotion; immense adoration hidden in the warmest chamber of my heart.

Remembering now, I can’t help but wonder if their thoughts spun in the same direction. I can’t help but wonder that in the birth and death of the day, if we all desire little more than to grip on to the tangible love in front of us, to hold tightly to that which brings comfort and peace, to be cradled with affection, to breathe in and out. 

8. Insider

They aren’t MY friends. I’m an outsider to this unique group of four who call Michigan home. I didn’t forge a relationship with them at their camp, in their beloved upper peninsula.  I met them sipping cocktails in a corner booth, supporting our friend, their fifth and my only connection, the beautiful bride to be.

I’d heard plenty about them from Linda’s stories both written and spoken, and the pictures she painted of love, affection and edification couldn’t have been more accurate.

Then somehow when I wasn’t paying attention, somewhere between the cocktails and the vows, they welcomed me in.

7. Personal Tragedy

If I saw it in a movie, I’d look away, or cover my eyes.  I certainly wouldn’t fixate on the details, taking in the sights and sounds and smells.

I wouldn’t know the trajectory of her thoughts, or notice the desperation grow as the minutes accumulate more and more rapidly.

No, I wouldn’t relate to this story. I’d be as naïve as the religious folk we all love to hate. I’d be safe and sound and whole within.

But in this nightmare of a dream I get no such luxury. I’m a front row spectator to my own personal tragedy. 

6. Crash

It sounded like a cracking whip amplified by one hundred. Ten fingers and ten toes, no broken bones; Shattered glass strewn about the car and all over my lap.

I ached all over but not enough to want attention, not enough to want your pity. Gotta be strong; be calm, cool, collected.

I made the statement to the police officer and tried not to be angry, tried not to blame her for being careless, young and scared.

A stiff neck brace and seventeen x-rays later I still tried to be tough, but today, I’m not and I refuse to pretend. 

5. Your Hand in Mine

I don’t know that I’ve ever sensed the subduing effect I felt as you ever so intentionally slipped your fingers in between each of mine, piecing me back together.

It wasn’t like the first time as we surveyed the sunset and watched the tide ebb and flow, your fingers accidentally brushing mine, then more and more daringly, no longer unintended. I was so painfully aware of each gentle graze that I swore I could feel each grain of sand fall between the cracks of my fingers back to the earth where they belonged; where we belong, your hand in mine. 

4. Memorial

I’ve wondered lately about the way we memorialize the things we lose, in light of the tenth anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Centers and the opening of the massive memorial at ground zero.

It got me thinking about how I cope with the things I’ve lost. The mementos I’ve kept to remind me forever of all the things that have been ripped out of my life sooner than I was ready. Should they be laden in bronze for the world to see, or should I be resting in the knowledge that His mercies are new each morning?

#3 - 100 words (Restless)

I sat for what seemed like hours, swinging gently in the bright orange hammock on the front porch.  So many thoughts swam through my mind and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t focus on a single one.  I attempted, as I normally do to pick apart the source of all the noise, to no avail.

Oh well, I sighed, and let myself sink into the hammock as it started swinging a little faster than before and the crickets sang me a sweet melody. I’ll let my body rest but my heart, for all intensive purposes, we’ll call it restless. 

#2 - 100 words (Reasons)

He heard there are several reasons that people begin using drugs, loads of extraneous circumstances that cause people to spiral into the depths of substance abuse.

People make it apparent that there are far too many reasons for him to choose from; her and them and all the pressures to perform closing in on him, threatening to throw off his delicate balance.

Just as the reality of his motives begin to sink in so does the plunger of the syringe in his arm, sending him swiftly into his own personal oblivion.

And, he thinks, at this point who needs reasons. 

#1 - 100 words

Nicole has never been one for small talk, which suits her quite nicely as she sits in a small corner booth of the local coffee shop.

At first glance she appears to be working on her MacBook, occasionally sipping the brew of the day, sans cream or sugar.

However, if you looked a little closer you would notice tired eyes behind the bangs she sweeps carelessly to the side as she works to meet her deadlines.

You don’t have to be a genius to see what she’s feeling, the designs and doodles she conjures up tell her story well enough.

Initially inspired by http://www.1hundred-words.com/

On Vulnerability

Can I tell you how it feels to be vulnerable?

Utterly and completely.

To be split down the middle,

With all my love and fears,

Slipping simultaneously, uncontrollably out of my insides.

You

Do you see all of me,

Feel what I’m feeling, see where I’m coming from?

Do you notice the quickening pace,

Of my heartbeats cadence,

Underneath the rise and fall of my chest,

As my breaths become shorter, more shallow.

Will it ever feel safe,

Will I ever experience freedom in this state?

Or will this glass house crack and crumble under your persuasion?

Will we succumb to joy or pain,

Or are both inevitable outcomes?

To be sure, we will have to continue,

Sojourning through this life together.

I’ll try to fight the urges to reinforce my fortress, if you’ll be gentle.

I’ll sit with my skin as flushed as the flowers on the table,

Again and again, for you, my Achilles heel. 

Anniversaire Toi

I was learning French when we started this, three years ago, the summer before my senior year of college.  I was stringing together most likely incorrect phrases like “Tu et le garçon qui je (You are the man whom I)…. Want, love, value, desire, hoped for.

I ardently believed all those things as I walked up to the alter to recite the vows like so many have done.  I vowed to love, honor and cherish in sickness and health, plenty and want, the traditional, time-honored words that centuries before have spoken.  The things, which at the time seemed most important.

However if I got to re-write them with the sage-ness acquired in a short three years, I would be certain to add a few.

I Katie, take you Nathaniel, to be my wedded husband. To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, in plenty, and in want, in sickness or in health, in sin and shame, in hurt feelings and botched apologies, in trust and in doubt, in triumph and in utter and complete failure, in beauty and in tears, in moments of great passion and times of apathy, with grace instead of judgment, to love, to cherish and to respect, with the smiles, breath, tears of all my life, 'till death do us part and the clock itself wears thin its time.

Those are the things I’ve gleaned in three years of learning to fight well and love even better. I’m immeasurably thankful for the gift that is being your wife.  Happy Anniversary my husband, Mon amour.