Circle

When I was twelve,
I wrote down
in the front of my brand-new Bible
(on the page that had a space
for how I was unique,
eye color and hair color
and when-i-grow-up sorts of things)
that I wanted
to be an Actress.

Sveta told me
that I should be in movies someday
because I looked right for it.
I laughed
but kind of thought it would be nice.

When we put on shows in our bedroom
(those were always the music revues -
the plays were downstairs,
so we could use the sliding doors
like a proscenium arch)
I balanced flashlights against the top bunk
to direct focus
with our sort of spotlight.

I would know that confidence
if I knew a way back to then.

Iamb

Maybe I should stick
to something like a structure
when I write my poetry
and this free verse of mine.

You have to play inside the fence
before you step outside its gate.
I've done a lot of playing here,
spent lots of time inside,
but maybe I have been outside
for much too long a time.

I think that I will play
in our backyard sandbox
for a little while, now.
The gate's remaining open;
I see it from my perch.
And if I get too scared of this
I can step outside and breathe.
But maybe there is air inside
and I should take some in.

Tuesday

Autumn stipples the leaves.
Orange and yellow and white lights
shine onto the scrim
through glass gobos
and colored gels.
Beam breaks dust,
and shadows dance behind the fog.

There is a blue bulb
naked behind a cage
and it looks kind of happy
in a sad sort of way.

I think it wishes it could see the tree.

Yacht

This is not really a poem. It's kind of a collection of questions that I thought of stream-of-consciousness. I think. I'm sorry.
~~~

content to life let pass him for a while

I DON'T KNOW HOW TO LIVE LIKE THAT.

and I might wish that I could,
like, that I knew how to stop.

But at the same time, I'm kind of scared of stopping.



You had a friend who died yesterday.
Sarah.
And I feel bad because you are in pain.

And I wonder if I would know how to grieve
if someone I loved died like that.
Do I even know how to love?
How can you grieve for someone
if you don't know how to care for them?
Am I emotionally grieving for you,
or is it just intellectual
and I am trying to make myself hurt inside, too?

How does one learn to love?

And how can I learn to live?

Blue

I was going
to write a poem
because I'm backstage
so could write some brilliant thing
about the miracle
of theatrical life

but I'm too tired
so I won't.

Songs for a new world

If I had to choose
between stars and the moon -
and the open highway
and the river beneath my feet
with nights full of passions
and days of adventure -
and this champagne
and a yacht -
a life that was scripted and planned,
the life like the movie stars led -
I wonder what I would want.

Die, vampire, die.

I haven't been writing very much lately.

It's been a while.

Can you love someone else
if you don't love yourself?

What does it even mean
to love yourself
or to love someone else?

The greatest thing you'll ever learn
is just to love
and be loved in return.

Yes
I guess it is
something you have to learn.
But how do you learn
when there aren't
books
and lectures
and words,
or something
- anything -
besides this fallible body
I call my self?

Prose

The pond about half a mile behind the neighbors' house was Magic. We didn't understand how, or why, only that we had been blessed with it. Sometimes it was there, and sometimes it was not. We didn't realize that the days it was not there were also the days when we could not remember the last time it rained, or a time when the air had not been so humid and heavy. And we did not connect that the times the pond was the fullest and deepest were right after a thick, full, heavy downpour. We only knew that sometimes, the pond was there, and it was amazing, and sometimes, the pond disappeared, and then, it was magic. It had to be magic.

Our parents never came back to the pond. They didn't like it that we went there, either. Often, they didn't let us go back there. "No. There are snakes." "There's probably poison ivy." "Oh, come on. Can't you just stay here and play in our woods?" But our woods weren't the same. This... this was magical. It was a Realm of Faerie or a Narnia all our own. And sometimes, they did let us go.

We would zip up our boots and plead permission to go in the woods. Our feet squished down in the soggy grass.

Menagerie

Fingers open, reaching
toward diamond figures,
animals arranged just so
on the oaken bookshelf
rag-polished every day
(at three:thirty-five p.m.;
Amanda sees to that.).

Maybe far away,
or maybe real near by,
he may be pouring her coffee;
she may be straight'ning his tie.

I like the way the light
catches the glass of my statues
and shines and sparkles through them.

I don't want realism. I want magic!
Yes, yes, magic.
I try
to give that
to people.

"Oh, Laura, haven't you ever liked some boy?"

Face flushes
as crimson hue jumps instantly to cheek.
Eyes flit, unable to decide where to go.
And heart, heart has long ago given up
beating in time with the tickings of the clock.

Lashes brush.
Dark, thick, heavy lashes
framing eyes
that see a lot
and say very little.

I guess
I might have
liked one,
once.

Defense

"Oh,
Well, I know I'm not turquoise,"
(said the caterpillar
to the bumblebee)
"but it's okay
and I realize that
because, see, you do know
that I never wanted to be turquoise?
I never thought I could be?
I'd have to be, like, brilliant
and I know I'm not
because I'm just green
which is kind of close to turquoise"
(and then he's quick to say)
"but kind of not!
close, I mean.
But I have to understand turquoise
if I can do well being green
because they're kind of close
remember?"

and then the little caterpillar thinks to himself
that maybe he wouldn't mind being turquoise
and maybe he wonders if he can do it
except maybe he assumes that he can.

Point

Look at that face in the mirror,
see why in shadows I hide.