Flights from the Aerie

Recently I've been writing poetry. A shock, I know. You never would have guessed, right? It's not like I've put up three poems since restarting this blog and declared my absolute and adoring love for National Poetry Month. Assuming I've been writing poetry would be preposterous. Mind readers, I salute you. In all honesty, I never used to write poetry. And if you do happen to stumble across a poem from my childhood, there is a 99.999% chance I will shriek and cry and maybe throw it into the nearest ocean because I hate it and just thinking about it makes me want to crawl under a table. I stand the other .0007% for nostalgia's sake and .0003% because I maybe possibly actually stumbled across something good (???) But the interesting thing I've noticed recently is that even when I was writing novels, I was never that far off from poetry before. Cue research because I'm a nerd. In professional terminology, my style of writing falls under the label o...

Seeing as April is National Poetry Month, I've decided to dedicate the remaining 18 days of blogging this month to poems I've written. I probably won't post every day, but when I do, the majority will be poems. If it ends up working nicely I might continue to pick a topic each month and focus my posting around that. We'll see.  (And yes, I know this is my fourth post in as many days. I'll slow down soon, probably XD) Cloudy today The weatherman would say Of me Of my mind Clouded haze Foggy thoughts Like wading through the humid day When It’s supposed to rain From all accounts But the clouds Are huffy And say They’ll take the 12% Chance of a light breeze from the nothwest Chance of seeing someone you like Chance of meatballs For dinner (for eight hundred, Alex) It might clear up tomorrow He’d continue, Scratching an itch on his neck Smiling for the cameras Becau...

Time is like a cat Regal   Bad tempered   Moody like the swing of the summer wind   It rips and tears and weeps and shelters   And I soar on its drifts   Up drafts   Down drafts   As I draft   Poetry inspired by the howling gales The muse is also like a cat   It loves to be stroked and petted   Rubbed behind the ears   But whether or not   It decides you are worthy   To touch its head   Run your fingers across its fur   Whether it grants you   A sandpaper lick on your fingers   Or curls its tail around your wrist   Or, heaven bless you, purrs   Is the challenge And a story is like a kitten   Mewing for attention   Small   Too small   Wobbling on tiny paws   Not yet having mastered the grace of the Tail   Too small to fend for itself   So you do   You feed it and pet it and care for ...

(It's a poetry kind of day, so here's one I wrote a couple months ago)                                                                                                                                                7:24 a.m. The grass is dead Frozen solid It is hard and brittle like shale Cracking beneath my feet Lumps and dips and valleys petrified under me I am alive But even my breath turns granite grey Heavy in the marble air And I think Maybe The whole world By unanimous decision Is stone today And I overslept Rushing Missed the memo Cosmic sticky note etched in the corner of my eye A Re...

It's been a long two years. I stare at the screen, and my eyes are full of empty space, and my ears are ringing with the stillness of the words I want to say. Hello. Goodbye. It's me. I know it's been a long time. I don't even know how to encapsulate all that the past two years have been. They've been rough. They've been bad. But they've been so important. And that's really good. And to squeeze all that into a page... yikes. In June of 2016 I moved over to wordpress. I had a blog called One Sparrow's Song. I put up 15 posts. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know what I wanted to do. I had fought the battle of chronic Lyme, and it had destroyed me. This was my attempt to rebuild. I wasn't ready yet, and quickly that blog died. 2016 was a big year. I was sick, really sick. I started and ended my first relationship. I almost failed my first classes. I wrote. I didn't write. I tried to do too much, a...