poems from today

  new years poem

someday i'll have hope on new years

and i'll drink the champagne in peaceful bliss

instead of gulping it and hoping for no tomorrow.

i'll make a list of the things i'll do

and then i'll do them.

i'll count down to the final hour in unison 

and i'll cheer when the ball drops in new york city on the TV screen.

i won't cover my head with my pillow when the fireworks go off.

i'll blow bubbles at the sky and watch the lights reflect inside them.

i'll wake up the next morning and get out of bed 

unburdened by the "what's the point" monologue.

i'll walk out my door without having to convince myself.

someday someday someday;

someday i will have hope on new years.

I remember 

I remember a poem that changed me

about how all things will go wrong

but that there will always small moments

that make carrying on living worth it

I remember a poem that changed me

about how tomorrow will be different

that tomorrow you will try

but tonight you will sleep

and i remember a song 

about loving someone 

that only seems to hurt you

and a song about

how the world is ending

but the lyrics are hopeful

and i remember the outline of a melody

that played as we biked in wide circles through the darkness

and i remember the smell of the earth 

when the stars were visible

i remember i remember i remember

the words on the page and 

the sound of footsteps on the concrete 

and the people. 

the people who's lifelines touched mine, 

if even for a flicker of a moment. 

i remember the feeling 

that everything is absolute and predestined, 

but i remember too, 

the infinity of a single moment. 

the lifetimes i've spent 

in other people's words 

and eyes 

and spaces. 

i remember.

 

Never the same river twice

One day you will go back to the place that was home

and you will be the thing out of place.

The last cake stored in the freezer thrown away,

the baseboards scrubbed clean,

a vanilla dressed candle on the countertop

with a prayer for the deposit.

You will look out the window for the last time

and breathe in that last bit of familiarity

before grabbing the final box 

with the fragile items

and double checking the locks.

You'll eat the strawberries your neighbor gave you 

(who now, is not your neighbor)

and throw the lacey stems out the car window 

as you pass houses you may never see again.

You will look in the mirror 

and remember that you are a person

and that this is an event

and not just the end, but a beginning too.

In a year or two you will pass the old house 

and you'll feel empty

until you see the lights inside and hear the laughter,

and then for just a glimmer of a second you'll feel grateful

that the place that made you, you 

is making other people too.

One day you will go back to the place that was home

and you will be the thing out of place.

And it will remind you that this is an event

and you are a person.