Ode to a story
Ode to a story.
Whether it's yours or mine.
Whether it's a piece of your life.
Or something made up in your mind.
Ode to a story.
that you read up late in your bed.
where you go to far way places
in the depths of your head.
Ode to a story.
that you can't put down.
that you hurry to the ending.
In hopes it turns around.
Ode to a story
that is a fight against all odds.
that tells of a journey
that ends in tears and applause.
Ode to a story,
that helps you to grow.
that opens, uncovers
the pieces you needed to know.
Ode to a story.
that fills up your heart
with love and of hope
to find your own sweetheart.
Ode to a story.
of mystery and crime.
where the day is saved,
just in the knick of time.
Ode to a story.
of knights brave and true,
of kingdoms, and swords,
and dragons that flew.
Ode to a story.
read just before bed,
with tucked in little children,
and kisses on heads.
Ode to a story,
that sing a song,
that get stuck in your head,
all day long.
Ode to a story
and to poetry too.
because poems are stories
and I just proved it to you.
Cracked
my words in poems
are disjointed
cracking on bad structure
the hinge of the meaning
hidden in convoluted phrasing
whereas stories seem to be
more open ended
a way to put together thoughts
without losing sight
of the end result
a poem is merely
a single thought
crushed into uneven
stanzas and presented
with nothing but love
but stories are easy
to follow and lead
us to the very spot
where we left ourselves
the most vulnerable part
of prose being the telling
of how we find our way home
I like poems.
I never knew my grandfather very well. He was a reserved man: brilliant and subtle. He had a crooked smile and he only spoke when he had something funny or insightful to say. As a result, I never knew him well and quite honestly, I never wanted to. There was no reason for that feeling, but he seemed like the kind of person who would be difficult to get to know. Eventually, I got to know him after he died. I read his book of poetry and I realized he was human. There's a running joke that the men on my father's side can't communicate well. That begun with my grandfather. But in these lines of free verse, his emotions braided themselves into each word, stringing letters together in an equally intentional and haphazard way. He communicated to me from beyond the grave in a manner only poetry could. Stories are fine - good even - but sometimes it's difficult to explain yourself in the detail stories require. Poetry and song share a common principle: their meanings are not definite or finite. You can manipulate people's words to make them your truth and that is the root of my love for poems. I see my granfathers words, and suddenly I am there with him, doing a puzzle and not saying much, but feeling his feelings.
An unknown felling of happiness and fear
Lost and confused,
Her words…
Don’t clarify her actions,
Not sure what I did wrong,
Still I’m to blame for all that’s happened.
“Sleep on the couch”,
“You make me sick”,
“I don’t feel good”,
“Why do you stink?”,
What do you need?
“Stop making me think”,
“Stop being annoying”,
“I need you to leave”,
I ask what’s wrong,
All I’m told...
“It’s not you, it’s me”,
So I leave,
But then I think...
What’s the harm in talking?
“Please stop calling”,
“I feel like I can’t breath”,
So I wait…
And wait...
Until I feel there’s space for me,
Then I act,
“Your acting crazy, don’t you see?”,
So I just let it be,
And just like that,
She messaged me,
“Did you eat?”,
I had...
Still I said no,
Got ready to go,
If she made room,
I can too,
Turns out...
That was not the thing to do.
“You need to eat”,
“Take care of yourself”,
“I shouldn’t have to tell you this ”,
“You should care about your health “,
I replied,
I did,
I do,
You don’t,
I ate,
“You lied?!”,
Ahhhhhh!
Nevermind,
I can’t give up,
So I say good night,
“Can you cut your hair?”,
“I think I hate it”,
“You hate it right?”
I’m so confused,
Yet can’t forget,
To just be patient...
I’m not the one who’s pregnant.