It amazes me how much writing continues to save me from my own thoughts that sometimes flood my brain.
When I first started writing, I was never pleased with what I wrote. I always thought it was choppy and didn't make sense to anyone, but myself. I wanted it to measure up to the greats and make its way into the hearts of people who felt the same way as my own. Yet, there I was, unsatisfied to my the core.
It took me a while, but I finally understood that I wasn't about the writing. It was about emotion.
As long as what I felt was on the paper, nothing else mattered. It was about my words making sense to me. Making me feel something. Since then, I write almost consistently from my own thoughts. It keeps me sane and afloat every day of my life.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Step by Step
In the coastal isles,
The gold never sets.
A step forwards the feet walk.
On the southern inlet,
Sunlight glimmers through the Spanish moss,
And pecans fall into palms,
And dew sits calmly on the long, grass blades,
And humidity contrasts talcum powder.
Another foot goes in front.
The palm trees are both dead and alive,
And cars move in a tortoise-like motion
And cats scurry
And the white chapel sits at the end of the way
And the lighthouse points westward,
In a gentle glow.
The cane wobbles, slightly right
On Oleander Street,
Life exudes from behind the steel fence
And red front door glistens
And oakwood swings welcome comfort
And biscuits come fresh from the oven
And glasses of cherry wine are poured
And the gardenias blossom
The feet halt and sit in a wicker chair
Evening comes quickly
And lounge chairs are retreated to
And legs are propped
And sandy feet are washed away
A smile from the feet,
An exhale.
For in the coastal isle,
The gold never sets.
"Sanctuary
The sun was iridescent that morning, like most winter mornings recently. Clouds converge into shades of grey and cover the sky in a blanketed formation. The church sits quietly this morning, dwells in the spirits of the graves surrounding it. I walk up the cobblestone street and grasp the large key ring from under my coat. They are hot from fast blood rushing around to keep my body warm. The large doors open, a dusting of snow scurries in front of my feet before I can bring them to a close. Inside, the vestibule is chilled. I flip the gaslights and chandelier lights on. They spring into action with a dim glimmer.
I make my way to the chambers, hang up my damp, coat, and grab a box of matches from my desk drawer. The drawer squeaks. In the sanctuary, the cool air turns my nose red. The silence is deafening. No one will arrive until much later in the morning, once the chaos of a Monday has calmed into a soft purr. I light the candles. One after the other. Each ignites the red candles and blaze in a reflection of reds and burnt oranges. Lovely. I sit in the front of the pews, the word in one hand, and piping, tea in the other. Winds wisp outside of the stain-glass windows. Winter brings light into the desolation.
My Dad
Tall and studious,
He sits.
Thoughts rule his mind
Like a kingdom
Of intelligence.
His hair, the color
Of the seasonings
On our kitchen table,
Grey and white.
The prisms of his glass
Reflect, bright.
A smell of coffee
Rich like mahogany
And metal, from
Inside his labors
Lay, he is a unique
Harmony of one.
My Mom
The kitchen was
Chaos, yet a calm
Chaos.
Steam billows
From behind her
Fiery, red locks,
Powerful.
Piles of chopped
Fruits of color
And veggies, strong
In scent. Spread
Along the counters.
Flour reminisce,
A baking flour
Can on its side.
Fresh muffins fresh
From the oven.
Cast-iron skillets
Filled with biscuits,
Like my grandma would
Make. Home.
She is my home,
She is my place, always.
