Raw

It grips me like crude oil from an oil drum
grips the sides of it's encasement,
wishing for an escape between the corrugated steel and rivets
scantily clad in
armor and wrong-doings,
the history of tomorrow written on it's footprint.
It seizes me the way the first note of a symphony
seizes the crowd and causes the
jaws to drop in frustration of their minds that weave just the same
but more cluttered and out of place in
strange platinum traps and
loose lips cross-hatched with the
stitches of existence.
If I could be anything I'd be a bird so I could fly to where you are.
Fuck that.
If I could do anything I'd leave this place behind me because
there's no use in pretending to fly
when in reality, you're knee-deep in quick sand while everybody else can only see you
from the waist up.
The reality of the situation imposes impractical feelings and even less
practical thoughts on the
swaying of palm trees in the distance,
the clatter of dishes on the floor,
the sound of bells at 10 am on a Saturday,
a feeble attempt at a cry to the sky taken on a whim by the breeze that knows us all, taken away, taken away,
taken away once more
to a far place you dream of but never can be until
you knock on heaven's
heaven's
hea
vens.
crude oil symphony written in the veins of a struggling poet in a sea of widespread uncertainty.

#33

Times like these I should be happy
but happiness is like oil
that runs out slowly until it drips and
trickles from
the geysers of the past.
I wish I could call you.
You'd know what to say
and what to do.
Fly away monarch butterfly,
fly away to the happy land.

#32

Well something good happened and
you should be the last thing on my mind
because lately all I see when I think of you
is a shadow of what
you might have been.
I pick up the phone to call you and it hits me again.
The last time we talked wasn't
really talking it was me
keeping calm through shaking storms
and the machines creating the illusion that you
were answering.
I pick up the phone to call you and it hits me again
like a fresh bullet
that you're not here.
That number is gone.
So I remember when I'd get straight A's and you'd tell
me that was great
and I was going to go far
and you were
Proud.
Well now I don't hear these things so I slip on my bathrobe and
hibernate for a few thousand years lost in the
sound of your voice
suffocated by a sea of regret.

#31

In the silence between the cracks of thunder
we are taught quickly
the value of looking inside the soul and
In the anticipation between the thunder and lightening,
I see myself looking in.

#30

I heard today you think I'm judging you like
Zeus judges all his little followers so I'm here to say
I don't give a fuck what you do
and I never said anything
so put some words in my mouth and
I'll give some words to you
that you can go back and spit to the world.
You feel judged because
you judge yourself like Simon
and you
know it's wrong or else you wouldn't be ashamed
like
you stole a cookie from a cookie jar.

This is for you and I don't care if I indirectly
post to you
trying to make this rant into a poem
just doesn't work.

I love you I just don't love what you do,
I don't love how you act,
but I love you.
So stop before I'm forced to bury you too.

Music

Music was a huge part of my Nana's life. She sang in the choir, multiple chorals, and played piano. Whenever I saw her, she was humming something or singing something. And, with good reason. She was a spectacular vocalist. I looked forward to going to church with her because whenever we did, I got to hear her beautiful voice. Everyone loved it. The entire congregation came to hear her voice.

The connection between music and my Nana wasn't just in her time physically here. When my mom, my grandfather, my aunts, uncles, and I were planning the funeral together, I was in charge (in part) of music. It was a daunting task, but maybe they all figured that I would know what to do being a musician myself. They were mistaken. I surfed her Pandora account, her iPad, her (ancient) computer, and the hymnal that she had. I found all the songs I could and the best ones were played at her memorial service. The playlist included the Hallelujah Chorus (her favorite song of all time) and Jesu, Joy of Men's Desiring. I didn't know if she liked Jesu, but I figured it was happy and praising the Lord, therefore it's something she would want. The weird part comes next.

I never thought when planning to check the piano for songs to play. Now it seems so obvious, but when I was caught in the moment, I didn't even think of it. However, a day after the service when I stuck around at my Grandfather's to keep him company and help start to sort away belongings and paperwork (which is an entirely different story) I decided to play piano. The piano was completely wonderful. It was perfectly tuned even though I don't believe she had played in a while. It filled the room it was put in with sound and, for the first time since that awful night, I felt free. Scratch that. I remember feeling freer that I had ever when playing music. However, I opened up the song book on her piano and there was a rusty, old paper clip marking a spot. I opened it and, as I recall, the song was Jesu, Joy of Men's Desiring. Attached to the paper clip marking the music was a little scrap of paper in her handwriting that said, "Love."

In that moment, I knew that she was there with me. I had been fretting about whether everything was the way she would have liked it. Apparently she didn't just "like" it. She loved it. She loved us and continues to love us and wants us to love others. That's the way I interpret that little scrap of paper.

I feel a strong connection to my Nana and music now. I've never considered myself particularly amazing at any of the instruments I play: violin, vocals, piano, cello, guitar... I'm mediocre at best. However, it feels as though, now that she is in that far place, all of my music skills have been heightened. My Nana was such a giving person that it is entirely possible that she gave a little bit of something away to everyone when she passed. I hope that I got her love and talent for music. I'd love to have that part of her.

I took to writing songs long before August 29th, 2012, but they were always just normal every day songs about life and what was going on at the moment. However, now, I feel like I can't sit down at a piano without making a song that has to do with her or the pain I feel. I know she wouldn't want that: that my music is now based around her, but just as I know she wouldn't want me to be sad yet I still weep terribly for my dear friend, when I sit down at the bench all I can think of is her.

Tonight was especially hard. I sat down at the piano to play a song I've been working on for a while, but instead all that came out were raw words about her. The chords were melancholy, with a slight smile at the end, but still mostly sad. It wasn't two minutes at the piano before the words turned to choked up whispers, to tears, to a full-on break down. I didn't mean to. I've been good lately about keeping my chin up (comparatively, that is.) I don't know what it is about tonight. So tonight is hard.

On the bright side (Nana would want me to find one,) today I got a solo part for the Theme from Schindler's list for the BHBL High School Orchestra on my violin. She loved violin songs like that, so I hope I'm making her proud up in that far place. I hope she watches my performance. Actually, I know she wouldn't miss it for the world.

Biography

“You’re too young to understand life.”

It is in the moment where the sun is rising, the moon setting

over placid waters, rippled with the tremors of existence

when I realize.

It is in the second I slip away, connected to my soul and the universe,

my mind calmed by the drug of actuality

when I realize

:We’re miles away, but seconds from that far place.

Always.

(miles away, but seconds from.)

My memories of that year entail being yelled at for pretending and

feeding my mother toast to keep her alive.

At eight I watched on as life seemed to trickle away but

rain through an open skylight in perfect equilibrium day after day.

In each conversation I swore I saw her soul touch her lips and retreat again

when she poised herself with her iron lungs to speak.

To speak, to hold,

(miles away, but seconds from)

Fourteen when I watched as a human became a shadow.

I made “I love you” cards and decorated a room made of

paper thin walls and lively flowers that still wouldn’t

persuade the dark-hooded man to walk away.

I heard her breath come in harsh gasps, but still pouring

love from every orifice.

To love, to breathe,

(miles away, but seconds from)

August 29^th when I listened to grueling sobs become the fabric

of the rugs and when something snapped inside my sixteen year old mind.

I called you to say goodbye but

you probably couldn’t hear over the machines

that pumped your blood and kept you here,

you constant gardener, you bright star.

To shine, to garden,

(miles away but seconds from)

Harsh reality that stings my bones with the realization that we are all but

(seconds from but thousands of miles away)

We’re too young to be this sad.

We’re too young to need to make phone calls to heaven

(Living miles away but seconds from)

We’re too young to know reality so well

:Always miles away but seconds from that far place.

“We’re too young to be forced to understand life.”

#29

Wishing means nothing if nobody 

can hear and 

these ships have anchors that bind us the the shores

of our subconscious. 

The bottom of this ship

scrapes the sand 

where our souls once stood

and

where you once were

and 

where we once laughed. 

A Dream

Last night, I couldn't fall asleep. Nights are the hardest for me. It's like the weight of the black sky suddenly falls upon my chest and, try as I might, it's just not possible for me to hold it up without tears spilling from my eyes. I don't know what it is about night time. Maybe it's just the fact that it's quiet with only my thoughts making sounds, or maybe it's the fact that it's the only time I'm truly alone from other people during my day. Whatever the reason, the nights are the hardest.

Lately, it's a ritual. I get ready, climb into bed, start feeling upset, call my wonderful boyfriend Michael. He talks me down and helps to calm me so I can fall asleep. Sometimes he tells me a cheesy bedtime story. Sometimes he just talks about his day. Either way, hearing his voice is something that instantly soothes me. Many mornings since August 29th, I've woken up with my phone on my face from where I dropped it when I fell asleep as he talked to me.

Last night was no different. We talked. I was doing really well until I decided I just needed to stop talking and sleep. So we hung up. That's when it all crashed down. I struggled, then remembered Mrs. Stewart and Bailey (if you haven't read Mrs. Stewart's blog, please go read. www.chrisstewart69.blogspot.com) and how in one post, Mrs. Stewart said she talks to her late son when she needs comfort and how I read on twitter that Bailey does the same. I felt a little weird talking to my dark ceiling, but I was desperate. So, I tried it.

I can't remember what exactly I said. I talked to my Nana and a dear friend who passed before her. I told my Nana how much I missed her and how I have been trying real hard to keep a smile up and to keep living my life, even though it is so hard without her. Eventually, I told her that I would love it if she could leave Grandpa's, my mom's, my aunts', and my uncle's sides for a few minutes and spend some time with me. I told her I needed her and I needed to know that she was there.

Now, I believe in miracles. However, I also believe in science. Therefore, I'm having a hard time figuring out whether what followed is just a result of that I was thinking about my Nana before I slept, or that my Nana was really with me. I'd like to think the latter.

I eventually fell asleep. At 2am, I woke up (as I often do these days,) but instead of being upset, I was filled with a sense of hope and happiness. I couldn't place it, so I didn't question it. I enjoyed it and fell back asleep. In the morning, at 6am when I finally woke up for school, I figured out I had a dream about my Nana. Only, in this one, it wasn't that I was an outsider looking in, as I normally am. I had an active role in this dream. I'll save the specifics for me. I'd like to keep this one close to my heart. However, in essence, we were together and we were watching her as she went about her last day on Earth.

It was like we were watching a TV show and talking through it, but still keeping one eye on the TV screen. She told me what she was thinking at certain points that day, and I told her what I was doing. Finally, we ended up in the hospital room together, watching over her, my grandfather, my aunt, and my uncle as she slipped away. Again, I'll save the details of what she said for me. I'd like to keep this one close to my heart.

I hope that she really did visit me. My biggest worry has always been how she felt her last day; what her last moments were like. I've always been worried that she was scared when she died. However, in this dream she proved to me that she wasn't scared. Nor is she now. She is serene and happy from what I've seen.

I'm grateful for this experience that she gave me last night. If this is how every night will be, I don't think nights will be so hard anymore.

Thank you for reading.

Um Alright?

I remember when we were friends.
We used to laugh and walk down the
hallway with smiles on our faces,
loud stupid things spewing from our mouths and
inside jokes about crazy hair and weird sayings.
I remember when we talked.
We used to stay up late on twitter ranting about things
only each other knew about,
texting each other pictures and
saying words only we knew.
I remember when you cared.
You'd ask me if everything was okay and
actually wait for a response.
I remember when this happened.
Out of the blue like why aren't we talking like
I don't understand
like
what.
happened.
Is it the partying with your new friends and
your stupid, mundane new vocabulary?
(I'll admit. That was harsh.)
Is it the poison you inject to alleviate the weight of
the rock and stone?
(Okay maybe not all my facts are straight.)
Was it the fact that I'm no good for you
with my antics and issues, laugh and tears?
(That's fine.)
If this has taught me anything, it's that
life is a game of
Memory.
Flip a card over once, but remember where it lands.
Don't pick it again.


**Well that really wasn't a poem. Well maybe. Who knows.**

#28

When I think about the fact that it's been

four months

sixteen days

twelve hours

twenty one minutes

and twenty two seconds,

it seems as if my eternity is destined to be a long string of mondays held together

by the thin rope of a fraying smile,

swaying gracefully in the breeze like a

clothesline

and hiding underwear behind Polo shirts.

The End

I'm going to take a little different approach here. Someone recently told me I should try using this blog as a way to get my feelings out, not just in poetry which can be tricky at best to articulate just what it is that is stirring beneath my bones, but in solid prose, standing tall.

So here we are. I'd like to begin at the end because I've somewhere been told that the end of it all can put all the rest in painful but needed perspective.

On August 28th, at 11:15am, I was climbing trees with some friends. We went up to Adirondack Extreme to celebrate a late birthday party because, as always, I couldn't seem to get my act together and plan anything on time. My birthday was two months earlier, but my mom told me I had to have a birthday party because 16 was "a big year." She couldn't have been more right about that.
So we went up into the trees and the day couldn't have been more beautiful. The sun was shining brightly down on us, creating lovely shadows across our faces where the leaves on the trees served as stencils for the negative image of the sun. The course was challenging. If you ever have the time to climb at ADKX, then I highly recommend it. It was tons of fun.

Anyway, after the grueling workout that it really was (although I am a rower, this was totally different than any exercise I was used to) we ate our bagged lunch and headed home. We had to race back as fast as we could because one of the people who came, my teammate, and I needed to get back for practice. Somehow, we made it. Exhausted as we were, we completed our SECOND two hour practice of the day after climbing in trees for four hours.

I know I got home at 8 from the river, but the next hour or so is fuzzy. I probably showered, flopped down on the couch and watched TV. Actually, I probably ate my house out of everything as I usually do after practice. Whatever I did, it seems inconsequential now compared to what happened at 9pm.

Around 9, I found my mother at our small breakfast bar with her elbow on the granite counter, her hair disheveled, and the phone to her ear. Her lips were pursed, her eyes blinking back frantic tears. She hung up and told me that my beautiful Nana had a seizure or a stroke or a heart attack or something and was on the way to the hospital. Immediately, I went into action mode, a trait I have inherited from my mom. I didn't cry like she did, instead I was there to comfort. Then, when she was okay, I went upstairs, called my wonderful boyfriend, and lost it.

This little cycle happened over and over again, with each call bringing more news. I wish the news was better than it was but each phone call got shorter and each length of time my mom cried grew longer. I hoped desperately that she would be okay; I prayed. I tried everything. However, she had a massive brain aneurism and was not expected to make it.

She was placed on life support although she had a DNR, and at eleven at night, my mom came up to my room. I was sitting in bed, my blanket pulled around me, and just staring ahead of me. I recall not being able to think about anything at all. My mind was blank and my throat felt like it had been pinched shut. My mom said to me, "They will take her off of life support at midnight. She probably won't live past an hour without it." Then she handed me the phone. "Do you want to say anything to her?"

I'm 16. I didn't know what to say to my grandmother. I wish I could remember exactly what I said. I told her I loved her multiple times. Oddly enough, I told her it would be okay. I told her that heaven would take her and that she could let go. I told her I would take care of grandpa and my mom and my aunts and uncles. I told her to please watch over me. I also told her to say hello to my friend who had passed a year earlier and to God and Jesus for me. I tried not to cry. Above all, if she really was hearing me (although science argued otherwise,) I didn't want her last Earthly memory of me to be a sad one. Needless to say, I did cry a few times. I'm sure she forgives me.

At 6:30am on August 29th, 2012, the end came. I wish I had a time turner so I could take myself back to every moment with her and squeeze her a little tighter, say "I love you" a little more sincerely. We had a relationship that nobody but us understood. I would give anything to fly up to that far place where she is now and just see her face. After all that has happened, I would give everything to know what she thinks of me now. Lucky? Strong? Proud? I think I know the answer, but I want to know what she really thinks.

I cry because she isn't here, but really, I know she is. The trouble with it all though, is that she doesn't need to see me, but she can. I need to see her, but I can't.

Thanks for reading.