Memories have always been wild things.

It took me 20 years to learn not to hunt for them,

nor cage them in the margins of a photo.

This is how man clings to what he imagines joy is—

               tightly, wringing a cloth that has never held water.


In the first moment of letting go,

something unknown tumbled into my chest

and pooled like warm whiskey.

Untethered I drifted a while,

watching a swift world eddy around my feet—

now I think I would very much like

to stop trying to capture wind;

to let myself be stolen by the sublime and

disappear—a gypsy.

I should like to be carried

               very far away.

I should like to be wild for a time

and hold onto this roaring in my throat.


(c) 2014 Marie KR


Rules to Live By #3

Readiness is an illusion. If you’re waiting to feel ready, forget waiting and leap–you will either rise to the challenge, or you won’t.


In secret

we all hope for fire,

for the relentlessness—

that whirling mystery we believe to exist

in the proper arms.

This is our private, unanimous crusade.

This is our unjust war

and we are tearing down cities

in a frantic search.

Yet in true Crusader fashion,

we will name no reason

nor waver.


(c) Marie KR 2014


Finding a pebble in my shoe

I kissed it and called it beautiful

for not lying about what it was.

Kiss me, and I’ll call you diamond

to let you forget the part of yourself

that once was coal—

forget or burn away.

I have been waiting for this


Underwater, I swallowed sand

for so long I began to rust.

Scoop me up, pluck the pearl from my tongue

so I can ask:

Will you shed gemstones with me?

The weight of this shell is too much now—

peel back the gilded crust and

slide emeralds from our eyes.

We wore them for the way they shone in the sun,

but we are not jewelry any more.

We are sea glass,

and I see you glitter more when

the light comes clean through.


(c)Marie KR 2014

The Way I See It, #1

The way I see it, love is a choice.

At a different point in my life I subscribed to the notion of love as an irrevocable, external force—one which was beyond human control. Sounds exciting, doesn’t it? Most of society is somehow convinced of this at some point in our development: that when the time/person/universe was right, some mystical wave of emotion would sweep us off our feet and carry us off into the wonders of love. This is the metaphorical falling in love—it’s romantic, it’s fun, and it takes nearly zero effort on our part.

More recently, however, I’ve come to a few realizations which have caused me to reconsider my view of love and relationships. Primarily this refers to my new understanding of love as a personal, conscious choice. Think about it: it is much more meaningful to look at your current/future Significant Other, with all their flaws and shortcomings and habits and history, and to make a conscious decision that you still love them in spite of (or even because of) all of the aforementioned setbacks. This is the essence of loving willingly, rather than at the hands of some irreversible force akin to gravity. It is the act of choosing that empowers us to take control of life and stop waiting for it to take control of us.

Choose to love or choose not to love, but don’t you dare try to blame it on gravity.


You breathed smoke into my face

and told me it is better to breathe fire

than recycled oxygen.

That’s all well and good,

but you are still stagnant beneath the nicotine.


I, too, am tired of stale air.

Tear out these clumsy lungs

and carve tunnels in my sides;

let me breathe like a grasshopper,

my body: a sieve

for the atmosphere to whistle into.

Make me the filter of your cigarette—

inhale, imbue me with embers.

I could be the interstate,

all speed and travel and newness;

rush into me

the way the road rushes into the mountain,

filled with the sounds of fast blood,

the hiss of air blistering beneath my skin,


It may not be much like what you hear in your own head,

but at least this is real.


(c) Marie KR 2014

Patchwork Poetry

I’ve created a new personal genre/cure for writer’s block!

The following poems are entirely composed of randomly generated ‘statuses’ created for me at WhatWouldISay.com

Jealousy is the fine art

There is an animal instinct.

It’s been given, made to be

Cos’ this is a lightening,

no two feelings are more synonymous than you

and it is fantastic.

Love you perfectly, love, these are the thoughts which run through me.

Death in several hours straight, I finally received my awakening

and you felt like you,

and I have a soul.

Kill me to bed.

Snow means happiness; But the Fall.

Why can people say it was bad day—

all of them doing something else yet

not enough to survive it.

Now, however, reality sets in.

It’s been wishing for the chance to see tonight

And I wish I was rather anticlimactic,

but we forgot to see tonight.

That moment when we’re on our darkest day

and you took a look at it,

looked the long half-mile down my spine and

I always feel when we find my actual train of thought

it will feel like a schoolkid who needs sleep.

So long, home

It’s been a while since I just discovered the world actually,

all of it,

this is it.

Home in this horizontal plane creates an ocean,

but it’s still home—

home in front of your harvester of the wind

we are all

watching the scales tip back

to fall off.

Life is an artist ;

sometimes God leaves us

a clean canvas, a picture to the world actually

But it’s technically still one out of your masterpiece…

just keep remembering that.

I humbly accept this is us

I tell her what I’ve been telling myself for months:

We each have

sidewalk chalk and an excellent question.

Do something fascinating and enlightening here and then

rest easy, in my only hands;

seeing, listening and hearing, breathing and now

going back to where the Wild around you

lets the adventure.

Love you perfectly

Life is your family as you

and you can tell them anything you wish

in case anyone missed everyone’s lives.


The juxtaposition of untruths, your family discoursing on the pouring rain,

which can wake the neighbors,

get the trees to clap their hands in the yard—

if I hear them I’ll recognize them.

Poor souls, they were made for rain

and all in all I think I’d rather be the sun.


(c) Marie KR 2013