Tag Archives: Original work

This Land That I Call Home

This land that I call home.

My heart beats in time with the vibrations beneath this specific patch of earth.

It is a part of me

And I, it, like the roots of a tree.

We are intertwined, as necessary to each other as sun to the leaves.

I am built from its soil.

At night its breath sings me to sleep.

And I know that while I may roam to far off mountains,

and drink in the lakes journeys away,

this is where I belong.

This is where my spirit dances.


My Grandfather

I was five years old when my grandfather died.

For most of my life I have been without him.

But when I look in the mirror,

His nose and cheekbones reflect back at me

surrounding the forest eyes of his daughter.

The temper I try so hard to master is a legacy of his,

and my mind as well,

whether I am wasting it or not.

Would he be proud of me, of the woman I am becoming?

The woman who so desperately longs for the courage he had when he was sent to war

and didn’t run.

Who wishes for his tenacity, his goodness, his integrity.

Did he lie awake at night with worries for his life

or did he simply live it?

This man, the only man my grandmother could ever fall in love with,

This man who needed no recognition or permission,

When I look in the mirror, I see his face.

I hope my heart resembles his too.

The Tree

I sit in solitude by the window

as the wind rustles the leaves outside.

The smell of summer is in the air

And of rain.

The thirsty trees turn their leaves to the sky in hopeful prayer.

I wonder as I watch the leaves shift and dance,

how anyone could want to be anywhere else?

How could want to be anywhere else?

But I find I have not yet learned contentment,

a virtue in everything but title,

and restlessness hums inside my bones.

Not always, but sometimes.

It is there today, a hunger I can’t feed.

So instead, I watch the leaves

and try to be the tree.

Growing outwards, into the earth and sky,

without taking a single step.


My Life is Not a Race

I stand in the blocks

Waiting for the pop!

The signal, the catalyst to send me into the front of the pack.

My muscles quiver in anticipation,

But one wrong move, too early like a party guest you don’t want,

And I’m finished.

But no.

My life is not a race.

Others share the blocks with me.

Too late I realize they’ve been given a head start.

The gun explodes and I am the bullet,

Shooting ahead but never quite catching up.

But no.

My life is not a race.

My heart burns for the prize at the end,

A hunk of metal to weigh me down.

But there are hurdles in my lane

Higher than I can leap, and I fall.

I fall.

I drag myself towards an arbitrary line,

Face red with shame. Last. Last. Last.

But no.

My life is not a race.