hasn't

Sometimes I write things I don't understand
But the pen starts to move when it gets in my hand
So I write down a poem that doesn't quite rhyme
And I write down a history that doesn't keep time
I write down a story that hasn't an end
And I write down a hero that hasn't a friend
So I write and I write and I finally read
And I see in the writing a small part of me
I had nothing to say at this short poem's start
But the words that I wrote sketch a slice of my heart

ice cream tumbler

there's a thought in my head that is churning around
but it's more like a picture or inkling or sound
it might not be concrete but it's certainly real
and the words that i know can't express how i feel

you can't say a feeling; you can't write a fire
but i have to say something...

can i write music?

Sarah, in retrospect

Sometimes I pour things out on paper that I don't want anyone to see
Sometimes I pour things out on paper that I want everyone to see
Most of the time I pour things out on paper that I wish that I could say
But I'm a little afraid of hearing my voice make the words
And hearing those words land on someone else's ear.

NaNo

to write stories
to write poetry
to write words
is to write for yourself
and who cares what they think

to write a story
to write characters
to write a novel
is to write for the reader

i couldn't do it.

soap in the linen closet

Today, I went to the linen closet and pulled out my afghan, and it made me cry a little bit.
My grammy made that afghan.
I brought the thick, purple blanket to my nose, hoping I could smell something of her in it, but it just smelled of soap and laundry detergent.
I tried to remember what her voice sounded like, tried to hear her laugh or say "Hi, dahlin'," like she used to, but the memory of the sound was just an echo, just beyond my reach.
So I thought of what the kitchen smelled like when she made macaroni and cheese, and how she wanted the sunroom painted red, even the ceiling. I thought of the knitting bag she used to keep by thr rocker, and that gray shirt she had with the pink flowers all over it. I thought of the games of solitaire. I thought of the puzzles on the table. I thought of her lavender-colored sneakers that she wore because they were so light and comfortable.
I thought of how she never wore socks.
And then I remembered how, one night almost a year ago, she sat on my couch - that one, right there - laughing and talking and admiring our Christmas tree. She was so happy and lovely and she looked almost as radiant as she usually did when she hosted a big family holiday. When she left, I gave a her a hug and said, "I love you."
The next morning, she was gone.
So today, I bury my head in my afghan, which doesn't smell much like anything anymore. I wish I could remember better. I wish we didn't keep soap in the linen closet. I bury my head in my blanket and cry.
My grammy made that afghan.

Inspiration closet

this morning, i looked in my Inspiration closet to find something, anything, to write about.
there's an old blue sweatshirt, which i'm sure isn't mine, and a new pink blouse, which i'm pretty sure is.
there's a snickers wrapper, from last Halloween, and ahomework assignment, misplaced last Monday.
there's a big cardboard box with a stain on the side and a pile of blankets that aren't stained yet.
there's a pair of black tap shoes, girls' size four, and a sparkly headband, one size fits all.
and then i saw it, way behind everything else. my Insiration.
it was a big, heavy, hulking thing - maybe a person? i couldn't tell - all dark and mysterious in the corner of the closet.
i reached back to grab it, to pull it out into the light, but i couldn't quite reach it, no matter how far i stretched.
so i crawled right into my Inspiration closet.
i crawled right up next to my Inspiration, wrapped my arms around it, and pulled with all my might. i threw my entire body weight against it, struggled and heaved until i was too tired even to breathe, but it was just too heavy for me to move from its spot. it seemed to have a mind of its own, and the harder i pulled, the more it resisted.
so i crawled back out from my closet floor, put my hands on my hips, and said,
"all right, Inspiration. i don't need you."
then i went downstairs
and i wrote this.
it's terrible.
but i did it by myself.

[title]

once upon a time there was a boy and a girl
there was something about love
and maybe something else
(i can't remember)
but anyway, they lived happily ever after.

oh, wait.
that's not how it ended...