Love. All You Need to Know. Because I’m an Expert. And I Write Poetry.

Love is the craziest thing life has to offer, I think. And we go through so many stages with it. Fear of it in adolescence; trying to figure it out as young adults; and finally calmness in life-long commitment. All of these phases are filled with wonder, frustration, fatigue, and joy. So I thought I'd see if I could capture them in poetic form. I mean, it is the season of Valentines and heart-giving, after all. 

The first poem is exactly how I remember Junior High school. The second, a few experiences in college. And the third is an ode to the dude who has put up with me for twenty-six years. Perhaps they'll remind you of your own experiences. Or maybe why I need therapy. 

Teenage Dystopia

So this is critical mass.

When chemicals

and things I’ve never heard of

Swirl so violently around

My body

They burst through skin,

Red and unwelcome,

Like great aunts who tell you

In front of your friends

That they’ve bought you new underwear

In coordinated colors

To match your bra.

Ack.

It’s also boys

Who obssess about things that smoke

Or explode.

Or who make noises

like a deflating balloon

When I walk by,

And get my name wrong

On purpose

So I sound like lunch food.

Do they think

I think

They’re cute?

Well I don’t.

(But I do.)

And finally,

My legs come up to my armpits,

My hair is straight,

My front teeth look like they’re

trying to leap out of my mouth

in case I say something stupid

— like a little kid —

Which is perfect.

Because I still have corners

Instead of curves

And I do look like a kid

And maybe boys don’t think

I’m cute.

Death.

My mass is so critical.

Iambic Love

He wrote a note to me the other day

And filled it with his soul and heart and eyes

A longing sonnet begging me to stay

With him, and seek no other wand’ring skies.

“A girl whose mind is always on the move,

whose heart is tied to zephyrs’ errant path

finds not her life, while searching for her groove

but finds,” he wrote, “instead her folly’s wrath.”

I sat and read the prose again and ‘gain,

And wondered if my whirling life should be

Forever tied with him, forsaking pain

Of years spent roaming ‘lone with only me.

His haunting words did pierce me as I wrote

“Than stay with you, I’d rather kiss a goat.”

Through the Window

You stood in relief

Against the sky

That pierced the glass

Of years gone by.

I thought upon

How you had changed

Your youth and vigor

Now exchanged

For something more

Built like a man.

Not broke, nor old,

And not less than

The boy I took

Into my soul

Who sometimes gave

And sometimes stole

And often stared

In speechless awe

At my ability

To draw

His rage, his love,

His deep embrace,

The changing moods

Upon my face.

And though I often

Gave him cause,

He ne’er forsook me

In my flaws.

A sort of calm

Pervades you now,

Though often still

I am a cow.

Our children come

Our children go,

The furrows on

Your face I sow,

And still you stay.

Upon my word

There’s surely one

Among the herd

With whom you’d rather

Spend the eve

Of living’s day,

And never grieve

The loss of peace

The loss of cheer.

But then you say

“Oh no, my dear

There is no other.”

And that’s why

I gaze at you

against the sky

And op’ the window

Of my joy

And pour it out

Upon my boy.