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Faith Fowler Poem
It is September and I am still tired
still yearning for change that I know won’t come
still searching for some kind of a feeling
through a pile of fallen leaves, this ground
definitely seems to have hardened now
because the grass doesn’t blow in the wind
like it used to, and I don’t feel the same,
either. But it’s okay and I’m okay.
I’m afraid my bones will freeze this winter
and I’ve grown rather tired of searching
through all of these dead leaves on October’s
hardened ground. I think my heart feels the same.
Burdened and buried yet benevolent.
I’ve tried to dust off the decorations
but it collects like tears on my pillow
late at night when the storm pounds within me
like rain on my picture window, it looks
as if the clouds are breaking up, but no,
they haven’t. October looms before me
like those ghosts on the television set,
except I am frightened by this sure scene
before me. Will November feel the same?
Copyright © Faith Fowler | Year Posted 2024
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Faith Fowler Poem
Deprivation of my rights and freedom
Bodily autonomy, tossed out of
a terrace window, seventy-third floor
of a building in New York that touches
the same ground I walk on, yet reaches much
higher than I could ever imagine.
I scream to them, giant politicians,
but the shadow of their business loafers
overhead scare the sound from my pursed lips.
My individuality exchanged
for a man’s practicality; it seems
as though they've had their fun suppressing us
Toying with my consciousness like a cat
praying on a field mouse, so innocent.
They say: so innocent! Could I be, too?
or shall I wear my curiosity
like a garment, like an oddity for
men to squint at, confine my mind and bones
to the idea that women shouldn’t
bare the decision of what lives within;
shackles on my reproductive organs
dig into my skin like the words they spew
from hot mouths, pouring into the laps of
women, alphabet soup spelling, “no more”.
Let us breathe in the possibility
of respect and dignity, the promise
of true liberty and justice for all.
Far too powerful, they fear, women are.
Copyright © Faith Fowler | Year Posted 2024
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Faith Fowler Poem
October’s in the air and you and I
just stare all night long at the nothingness.
You told me ,“life is but a dream”, but all
that I have seen, is your attempt for change.
When I’m with you it's easy, like telling
you good evening as you close your tired
eyes. and I wish you weren’t so sleepy but
I hope you’re maybe dreaming of a life
with me. And maybe I’m not so fragile,
and you will drive us to the chapel; I’m
in a white gown devoid of salty tears.
and I hope when you look back on these days
you won’t remember my somber smile,
or all of the driven highway miles,
because there wasn’t a day that would pass
where I believed distance made my heart grow
fonder. but now you’re here on Autumn days
I haven’t fallen into my old ways
though I wish I smiled more in the sun.
Leaves are scattered on the ground and I hope
you’ll hold me tighter instead of handing
me the lighter because I’m tired of
setting flame to our love. Let me close my
seasick eyes; tell me please, I’ll be alright
As long as it's your heartbeat next to mine.
October’s in the air and I
don’t want to stare all night, so long
at the nothingness. If I could
be alright, then perhaps we’ll
kiss goodnight, just one more time so
I won’t live in the nothingness.
Copyright © Faith Fowler | Year Posted 2024
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Faith Fowler Poem
The other woman lives inside of you;
I can see her silhouette in your eyes.
Her tendons twist through yours, interwoven,
down through your fingertips, I see her there.
The other woman lives inside of you,
I can hear her hungry heart through your chest
Her whispers bleed like poison through your mind,
echoing in your voice, I hear her there.
The other woman lives inside of you,
I can feel her presence through your body.
Her figure snug beneath your satin skin,
radiating through you, I feel her there.
The other woman lives inside of you,
I can smell her cloying rose upon your skin
Her scent smothered in your tousled brown hair,
absorbed into your flesh, I smell her there.
The other woman lives inside of you,
I can taste her lust when I kiss your lips.
Her secretive tongue in your starving mouth,
That name stuck in your teeth, I taste her there.
The other woman lives inside of you,
and though you assure that she isn’t there,
could she too be capable of sensing
The haunted woman who lives beside you?
Copyright © Faith Fowler | Year Posted 2025
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Faith Fowler Poem
The first time I felt my sorry heart break
into pieces on my tear dampened lap,
a new feeling washed over my body.
It wasn’t anger, hatred, or disgust-
but like my soul had been torn from my chest:
returned to me in the palm of my hand.
Composure; that’s the word- it’s difficult
to keep your composure when you can’t breathe,
when the clouds overhead are cast aflame.
I do want to forgive your guilty face,
but each time I look at it, I can’t see
the remorse in your eyes, the tears in mine
have fallen continuously since then:
since I lost whatever spark that we had,
and it kills me to admit that I’m tired.
No matter where I search, I can’t find you:
I can’t find the person I knew before,
the one who would “never do such a thing”.
It’s eating me alive, the thought of it:
your eyes studying her beautiful frame,
your mind longing for what’s kept out of reach.
The thought of you looking at someone else
the way I thought you only looked at me
strips the glue from all my broken pieces:
I wonder what you see in me at all.
Part of me understands why you’d do it:
the other half is wishing you hadn’t.
All that I wanted was to be enough,
to be the one you are afraid to lose.
Forgiveness; that’s the word- it’s difficult.
Copyright © Faith Fowler | Year Posted 2024
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Faith Fowler Poem
I’m angry that you’re gone, and
I’m angry that I don’t know where you are;
although you were definitely made of stardust,
or whatever glistens on the moon.
Regretful, confused, perhaps because I don’t know
if I’ll ever see you again
and the indefinite promise that you’re gone
is quite honestly terrifying,
mesmerizing, I get lost in the thought
of you being anywhere, somewhere.
I’m angry with the promise of a “better place” -
that you were always sure of -
but that I cannot fathom.
What better of a place,
than here with me,
instead of in the uncertainty
that follows me around like a lonely ghost.
I hope that it’s you that follows me, but then again, I don’t
because I’d rather feel you in the summer rays,
in the wispy wind
in the watercolor sunset, feathered with clouds
in your favorite songs while I fly down the freeway
with tears slipping down my cheeks
as quickly as you slipped away.
I’d rather feel you in my heart,
in my bones,
and in each beautiful part of life,
because I know that’s where you’d want to be.
Copyright © Faith Fowler | Year Posted 2024
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Faith Fowler Poem
the worst of me writes poems
if I can find the words to say
the worst of me writes stories
of the heartaches I have faced
the worst of me gets angry
and sometimes I don't know why
but the worst of me recovers
because the worst of me gets high
the worst of me is careless;
no, careless isn't the word-
but the worst of me is stubborn
because the worst of me has learned
that the best of me is fragile
like the flower in your palm
that withered in your icy hand
when you promised to keep it warm.
Copyright © Faith Fowler | Year Posted 2025
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