Spiracle

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,

susurrous.

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

but at least this is real.

 

(c) Marie KR 2014

Storm Windows

I have installed storm windows

on the front of this house

and now I cannot break.

The workmen invaded

in their heavy boots to

soil the rugs and trample the flowerbeds.

They smashed in the old glazing,

splintered the frames,

removed old screws and bolts,

staples and caulk,

and for a time left only a pair of gaping holes

to let out the rain.

Now, at last, new glass is in place.

I have installed storm windows

on the front of this house,

and now the weather inside

cannot get out.

(c) 2013 MarieKR

Romance is Overrated

Wouldn’t you agree?

Ahem, allow me to correct my statement: teen romance is overrated.

I stand strictly behind my opinion that teenagers (though there are some exceptions) say the word ‘love’ far too soon. When I finally have the opportunity to tell a significant other “I love you”, I want to be quite sure that I’m saying it to the person I will later marry. Call me old-fashioned, but as a writer I like all of my words to have significance.

Unfortunately, every day I watch young couples of my peers around me claiming love on the second date and breaking up a month later–face it, if you find it necessary to celebrate a one-week anniversary, it means your relationships have seldom lasted much longer than that. I still can’t decide if it’s depressing, disappointing, or demented.

Now, don’t get me wrong, it is nice when you notice a special individual who makes you feel all happy and silly and bubbly inside, and I won’t deny that I’ve had several aptly-named ‘crushes’ before, but isn’t it worth more to find one exceptional partner as opposed to a string of placeholders?

Think it over…

Eccentricity

In my dreams

I lay my palm against your chest

as if to capture

the arrhythmic beating of your heart

between my fingers.

The doctors call it a defect,

the mood swings of a

radical organ—

good thing I’m not a doctor.

I see your heart as a writer,

too fond of twist endings;

a painter dragging your

pulse

in erratic loops across the canvas.

There is something creative

inside of you

playing tricks and riddles,

making up the words

to a song as it sings.

So let it ramble on.

(c) 2012 Marie KR

‘Tis Only the Beginning

This afternoon, whilst digging through the dusty archives of the MacBook, I found an old poem! Well, what a surprise! I do remember the process of writing it several months ago, but can’t quite recall the specific experience which inspired it. Apparently I never posted it, and the poor thing was just lingering in the basement of ‘My Documents’, waiting to be remembered. Sniff, so sad…out of pity I have dragged it out and dusted it off a little bit, and turns out it’s actually a worthwhile piece!

Roadkill

Coasting home on the lonely drift of Route 523

around a curve my headlights pass over

a murder scene

on the shoulder.

It’s just a glimpse

but even today I can see the carnage as if it is

plastered across my windshield.

A hit and run.

Her body is cradled in the sharp metal arms of the guard rails,

legs bent and twisted against the bed of asphalt,

face pressed into the oily grit.

Her mouth hangs open,

tongue tasting the earth

Head, thrown back to expose

a long column of throat

stained gray with dust and death.

But the eyes are the worst.

They stare into my headlights

and for a moment flash in imitation of life

but it’s just a reflection.

She is trapped,

her torso forever stretching toward the other side of the road

an unreached destination in sight

of blind eyes

and I feel her confusion

as my own,

a life cut so quickly

that she’ll never know what ended her in mid-step,

in darkness,

in glaring lights and squealing tires and nothing.

She is helpless and she is dead

and I should stop

tell myself I would stop, want to stop

and see if I can help when nobody else will.

Unfortunately

I’ve been taught that when it comes to animals,

we can forget that we have a heart.

(c) 2012 Marie KR

This is a topic which frustrates and confuses me to no end; the way that humans treat animals as if they have no consciousness, as if they feel no pain and that their lives have no worth. Someone else sees a deer on the side of the road and thinks “There are too many deer around anyway”, but I agonize over wondering if it’s still alive, if it understood the pain, if it was afraid. I seem to be cursed with an overactive empathy gland, because this is my typical train of thought in most every situation: how well can I understand what that living thing is experiencing? It’s terrible and painful and maybe silly, but I’d rather think like that than just brush off a life because I hold myself superior to it by intelligence or size or species.

But I realize that the title of this post needs an explanation. I’ll assume the incorrect fact that many people are daily checking this blog with bated breath, hoping for an update. Well, you’re all in luck! This post is only the beginning of a series of poems I’ve been working on for a few days and which should be ready for sharing very soon. So, don’t give up hope! There is more rambling to come!

“…then you’re not listening hard enough.” -Michael Lee

I’m feeling rather introspective and philosophical today…that’s usually when I’m at my most dangerous. Come thee no farther, for here be dragons!

Being of the strong opinion that beautiful things need to be shared, I hereby introduce you to a certain Mr. Lee, both a marvelous human being and a fantastic poet!

I swear, I can only dream of writing like he does. My favorite poem by him is called ‘Pass On’

I encourage you to watch the whole thing, and then watch it over and over again as many times as is necessary until it makes you feel different in some way. It took me a few times to really listen.

I feel overly affected by things like this, as if nobody else reacts like I do. When I hear a perfectly written poem, even a perfectly worded phrase, I get a rising, swelling feeling in my chest as if an absence which I never noticed before has just been filled. Words are my solace; they lift me back up, distract me from the never-ending avalanche of life which I’ve been trying my best to hold back.

I hope that poem makes you feel the same way…

Cheerio, then, Gov’na!