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Nykki Houtkooper Poem
Opened like a morning leaf
exposed beneath the moon,
Resting in the tentacles
of a clouded ink coccoon.
Wringing hands now rest at peace-
the solitude of night,
a lantern in the wilderness
the miracle of flight.
Dancing on the tabletops
or falling from a swing,
is noticing the networking
of every living thing.
Observation is the art
that shows a single frame,
experience will turn to stone
the given and the gained.
Copyright © Nykki Houtkooper | Year Posted 2005
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Nykki Houtkooper Poem
Standing on the broken cement of the back porch
silently staring into the skies
and talking to myself
Fingers struggling to keep appearances
windshield wipers across my cheek
watercolors gone white
Flippant, fanatical, furious
patient, protective, passionate
trying to love the beast
Sending dreams to the clean ears of the open air
returned quickly, clutched in your mouth, crushed
presented for reward
Dead birds delivered to my doorstep
my nature wants to heal them, bury them
yours waits and wags its tail
Copyright © Nykki Houtkooper | Year Posted 2010
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Nykki Houtkooper Poem
I hear your tiny fingers shuffle
against the textured walls, trying
to feel for a crack to slide into
and hide from the fact that you are
still too small to make big changes.
It is the same
for many, for most, that can not move
mountains or make headway
and simply decide to sit quietly in
anger and wait for anything
to cut enough to create an outburst.
I feel your eyes stare into the room
as you smell the candles cast the scent
of vanilla and sulfur into the doorway.
Welling from within, emotions rise
and fall with ears strained and weary bones
ready to stop and sneak back to sleep.
It is different for you
to be without a voice, to be outside
of decision and determination in these matters
of heart and home. This is hard
to be small and quiet in a loud
and large part of your world.
Copyright © Nykki Houtkooper | Year Posted 2006
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Nykki Houtkooper Poem
“Dickhead”
There is a saddened kind of shame
a name that’s cruel and thus demeans,
elementary obscene
a child can not reach deep enough.
It started when I read above
my third grade level reading group
and followed to my brownie troop
then fearful fighting, flight to home.
And in defense I’d use my gift
to make up names and write mean songs-
I’d teach the boys to sing along
and charge their chocolate milk money.
With my moustache a poor disguise,
with puffy, rubbing, teary eyes
I made myself apologize
though only choking squeaks were heard.
Nicoleslaw Dickhead was my name
a name that’s cruel and thus demeans,
slimy side-dish dung for brains-
a child can not reach deep enough.
Copyright © Nykki Houtkooper | Year Posted 2011
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Nykki Houtkooper Poem
From the moment I feel that spark
in the palm of your hand and let it
run over the bone of my hip, I am placed in a
euphoria that drags along with me for months and
years.
It keeps me awake at night and clouds my focus
during the conference calls, bathroom breaks, and
monotonous drives home. It puts me to sleep as I stand
over the boiling pot of spinning webs.
I can feel every stroke of your finger across my face, my thoughts of it. I am
trapped in my memory and longing for the silence of water
falling from the shower head as I drink you in over and over.
It makes my heart flutter and pound and fumble to catch its breath. It makes my mind start and stop
and sputter like a Chrysler with no battery. I hold it quietly around my middle, to protect me from the
emptiness of acceptance.
This is a dirty trick of an imbalanced mind. It is not the very real experience and longing that I try to
compress with this very unhelpful, old washcloth.
Copyright © Nykki Houtkooper | Year Posted 2011
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Nykki Houtkooper Poem
Learning to let your words
stand as spoken,
a broken place in my heart
is reaching to find hope
in an inhospitable space.
I sit in my bed and dread,
searching for the bravery
to accept comfort in your reassurances.
I have always wanted to believe.
Ripped out of the wall and disconnected,
the hum of the radio cradled me,
waiting for my cheating husband to
come home and discuss the phone bill.
The torn red vinyl seat
of an after-hours diner
steadied my hand
as my best friend disclosed her betrayal.
Taped and tied down in a corner
you can find a very small and unnoticed
me, praying to never be
brought back to these places.
Roused from jaded reflections,
I find myself so in love with you
that I have to leave it be.
I sip tea and breathe in
the peace that only trust brings.
Faith is intangible.
It is as conceptual and euphoric
as forever, or always,
or happily ever after.
If faith is believing in something
I've never seen before, then I will have faith.
Copyright © Nykki Houtkooper | Year Posted 2006
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