This stone is a memory
and memories are not truth.
I carry these stones in a box,
dripping nostalgia all over my shoes.*
The box fills faster than I can make room,
old rocks settle down below.
Some get stuck between my toes,
as I limp toward another show.
It's already Tuesday again.
I've got a pile of Tuesdays stashed away,
wearing themselves down to sand,
rattling the box with every shake.
Running my finger along the edges
for the last time—I'll know,
I'll divine them across the floor
and see what remains.
People write about fireworks.
About stolen kisses in the rain.
About grand declarations that change everything.
But I don't think that's where love lives.
Love
I think
looks less like fireworks
and more like Tuesdays.
I want to be the girl you come home to after a long day.
The one who already knows whether you need
to talk, to laugh or just to sit in comfortable silence.
I want to eat dinner with you when neither of us can decide what to cook.
To argue over what to watch.
To steal your hoodie because it's closer than mine.
I want to know which side of the bed you sleep on
And exactly how you take your coffee
I want to be the first person you call
when life gives you something worth celebrating
and the one who quietly puts the kettle on when it doesn't.
I want to grow with you.
To cheer for dreams that become plans,
Plans that become memories,
and memories that become a life.
Because I don't dream of extraordinary.
I dream of the life that happens
between the milestones.
Love
I think
looks less like fireworks
and more like Tuesdays.
was the whiskey and the jazz playing
On too many black nights with too
Many lonely women and not a poem
Between them
How many times can you run
From the shadow of the voices that
Surround you
Beating like drums in the darkness
Tasting more of your flesh each time
Not leaving enough for a man to breathe
No way for a man to live
How could the hep-cat jive survive
When my voice can only spit silence
Wasn't a dream left to filter thru
The night worn inside and out and
Bled dry a bottle singing the page blank and life in the hands of
the haves laughing at the broken shadows of the have-nots
There was a club on 34th and Second Ave where the jazzman
swung
All night long beat poets recited Tuesdays' nights and Jack was
always drunk in the third booth
Scrawling poems on paper bags and notebooks
Taking life hard on the chin and after a while not fighting back
anymore
Ain't the road thzt donev Jack in
Turquoise trees sway in my dreams
Unicorns fly high with white wings
Emerald dance of the music man
Singing with green guitar in hand
Dainty Donna an artist true blue
Always doing portraits so neon new
You are her subject at the poetry slam
Snapping fingers words sweet peach jam
She wonders.
If I did.
Forget the dishes, dishes, dishes.
There are sharp knives, that get sharper.
Dirty water.
It’s always Tuesday when I get cuts on my fingers.
We never have bandages, I don’t know why.
The knives and I fight like this.
I make everyone mad.
Tuesdays are when I go to work.
Tuesdays are when.
Events are connected like that.
I promise.
I get a cut on my hand.
But that makes me invincible for the day.
People are nicer, they don’t stare as much.
I avoid a cascade that way.
I write on paper, not the wall.
They hate the wall.
I prevented a car accident that way.
The fan blows the pages around.
If the pages were money, the earth would explode.
Instead, I’m happy for once.
I knew it.
What?
It’s Tuesday, so I knew it.
Humpty Dumpty has never looked this serene
You think so? I think he looks rather green.
I need silence while I draw said Mother Hubbard.
Her dog wandered off to sniff out her cupboard.
Papa bear asked if Goldilocks would be in today.
He liked drawing her, thin, trembling and gray.
The other artists glared at his gall, wishing him away.
He took a hint and wandered outside to play.
Red Riding Hood expressed relief at the still life.
She was scared of the wolf, he still brought her strife.
We paint the wolf only on Tuesdays Puss in boots said.
His paints were wobbling, blind mice shaking it in its stead.
Where is the Alice? Asked the white rabbit.
He stops by on Mondays which is always his habit.
She may stop by on Tuesday, want to paint with us?
“Not today,” rabbit said. “My missus is all in a fuss.”
I will have fun learning today
I am here to serve
Here to purge
I love my brain & body
We handle challenges so well
Today will be comfortably uncomfortable - a result of my consistent growth
I welcome beauty
Yesterday's mistakes are given
All my needs & wants will be met
I attract more positive people
I choose to speak truth today
My mindset is my safety net
I am filled with love
I will exude the freedom of love
What is below is what is above
I know today will be better than I expect
Gratitude *Inhale & Exhale & Smile*
A Tuesday with tacos is swell,
But Wednesdays can sometimes be hell;
For south of the border
To remain in order,
You’d best stay away from the Bell!
Morning songs
Coffee sings
Stains of grey
Just tell me
What it is
You have to say
Our dawn is piercing
Time into
Can’t speak to split
For I’m overwhelmed
By the Saturdays fading
Amongst your
Saddened lips
So many times
I left undisclosed
You seem to think
I’m at your door
But now I fear that
You may already know
To and from
We start to go
Hand in thumb
Summer birds
They whisper
As we hum
Chew unto
I’ve lost my feet
Became a statue
Next to you
Two in two
We pair
unsowed in brew
Today you’re gone
Tomorrow’s loan
Again I’ll sing
Yesterdays song
Can you think
Of better times to come
I’m going there
Trying to reach
What’s drifting down
They know where its from
Days, they fail
Afternoons
No Sunday brunch
Carolina’s after you
A duet to miss
Or hold it with
I’ll tell you this
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