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



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


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


In the North Pacific

scientists have discovered a baleen whale

who swims alone,

singing at a frequency

unrecognized by its own species.

To this one,

the world is nothing but an empty ocean

he is calling into—

a broken record

waiting for echoes.


And then, there’s humans.

In this information age,

we broadcast everything.

We move through a sea of radio waves,

wakes spreading behind us—

echoes of a world screaming

“listen to me!”

Everyone is trying to be important.

Filtered information

expelled as proof of our value:

               an opinion, a story, an argument

               anecdote lesson scripture prayer


               a suicide note in 140 characters.

We are learning that if we cannot entertain,

society does not want to hear from us

so why try?

Scream all you want

but outside of our atmosphere

it is still silent.

Turn on all your lights

but the universe will still be black.

If everyone lives with a fear of being forgotten

all we can produce is dead noise…

we are told to just stop talking

but for some of us it isn’t a choice;

we are writers who brew words like tea

and the pot is boiling over—

here is my handle,

here is my spout,

tip me over and pour me out

for I am nothing more than a vessel

which cannot empty itself

nor stop the overflow

when whatever is held within

has nowhere to go but out.

We remind the world

that despite the loneliness,

that one whale keeps on calling

and we will do the same.

We do not scream,

we sing!

We are whales,

sinking ever deeper into the music in our heads

flukes curving in a last, glorious farewell

before we dive in.

Do not try to silence us.­

(c) Marie KR 2013

Noise Pollution

What was the first word spoken

under today’s sun, I wonder?

The first yawn or

bark of a dog—

the first noise unfurling ribbon-like

from tongue or television.

Did today awaken with piano chords or discords?

It matters because

that first sound

broke the silent dawn

and billowed off on the wind

like a runaway kite.

But it does not stop there;

how much noise can we make in a day?

Every breathe, every word,

all our music,

all our hearts (muffled but still dully thumping)

dropped objects giving cracks like


automobiles moaning on the motorway

the never-ending noise

and it all rises.

Chains of sound

rising on the heat waves

and filling the sky

until she expands

like a blue balloon over our heads

so heavy with sound

that it swamps our lungs

and sinks the birds.


And then, it rains.

If you ever stand out in the rain

and listen to the cough of water on pavement

you are hearing the atmosphere

spitting our words back at us.

(c) MarieKR 2013