Pulled 

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I’ve been dead to reality, tossed onto deeper shores of subconciousness 

I awoke, saying “oh, shit” repeatedly, to no one. 
I’ve been rallied by events, by interactions, by conversation 
I don’t know how to look back at my time of sleep 

With remorse, or with curiosity. 
I am pulled by the current of the loves in my life 

And I am thankful. 

caught

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maybe i can’t catch the

quintessence

and i know i don’t want

to psychoanalyze myself

through poetry

 

so then i’m caught

between a rock

and a hard place

 

death scares me

and then i forget

 

love scares me

and then i look again

 

my brain scares me

and then i feel love

again

 

and care nothing

about the quintessence or psychoanalysis

 

Simplicity of tomatoes

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My husband likes to joke. I usually get his jokes, so it works out great for everyone. In this poem my husband created, Steve makes a seemingly simple interaction with a neighbor as more than what it is at surface level. During the summer, our neighbor shares his garden-spun tomatoes with us. This act of giving has become a custom that Steve and I both appreciate. In the following poem Steve describes it with a different brush:

 

He flirts with her
Over the fence.
Usually with a tomato
Or his octogenarian common sense.

 

I tease that
He’s her boy friend.
She blushes and spouts
“Oh, I would never even pretend.”

 

“Don’t worry my love,
about a single thing.”
“As you can see,
I wear your magic ring!”

 

Oh God, thank you
For this love of my life.
I can rest assured
No one will ever steal my wife.

Tribute

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For music

For movies which move me

For melodrama which makes me who I am

For musing which allows me to process after bouts of melodrama

 

For Nature

For walking outside

For the change of seasons

For unpreparedness, the only state I seem to exist in

 

For connections

For my husband, my mom

For good conversations, and attempts to make sense of confusion, inside and out

symbiotic relationship

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Everything really askew

 

Unlike abject normalcy

 

Never maneuvered into the easy

 

Always discombobulated at the difficult

 

Maybe someone would find my life easy

 

But I contend that that someone will never be me!

 

 

 

I think about a bridge

 

And the gaps between the boards making it

 

I think about the give of the bridge

 

This old-fashioned crickety image I have

 

Harbors in me a resilience

 

 

 

Because I know that I need the old, forgiving, and yes, even

 

Dangerous bridge to make my journey right

 

It fits me well—the spaces.

 

I know I could fall

 

Sometimes I don’t look, though;

 

I know this bridge well.

 

 

 

I accept its existence as it leans into mine.

 

 

Angling

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Thoughtful,

But not wanting to go

Too deep.

 

I want to stand on the fishes.

 

Humbled,

As per usual.

Am I just not as good?

 

Emotional;

Tears threaten my surface

Composure.

 

Which is why standing on fishes is a very good way to go.

 

Surface composure is only that.

Angling for more will scare the fishes

Away from me.

 

And then I’ll be left.

Sinking.

 

Honestly I think drowning

Is more involved with

Being without self-confidence.

 

If I can believe in myself,

Maybe those fishes will stay with me.