Poetry

I've had this little writing comm for awhile now, and I still haven't posted anything in it. Today in one of my English classes we were discussing a poem and how it related to poetry we've written ourselves, and I remembered a few of the poems I'd written for a poetry class last year. I thought I'd post two of them here, just in case anyone cared to read them.

Disclaimer: I don't consider myself a poet by any means.



Sister



We’ve sat in these wicker chairs for years,

Dribbled ice cream and melted popsicle in the crevices between the woven fibers,

Jumped up to escape from mice

Hid behind during hide-and-seek

Dragged off grumpy kittens from sharpening their claws on the wood.

Now we huddle in the dark, sitting close,

Remembering ice cream while smoke floats above our heads.

You tell me that you wish I’d never leave

And I tell you that you’re the only person I know I’ll have forever.



You make mistakes and I fix them,

Brightly colored band-aids now a hug and advice

That you trust because you know

That I know you better than anyone else

And always will,

No matter how long we’ve been apart

Because I carried you up stairs and

Read you stories before you knew the words

And even now you want me there

To put the puzzle pieces back together

Because you know that I’m the only person you’ll have forever.



We drift back into the living room and bright new green couches.

You fall asleep and I try to leave quietly

But half asleep you ask me to stay

And I do.



Soap



The bathroom is an escape from the thick, sick air of the bedroom

and I can finally breathe deeply and stare at the little soaps

lined up on the counter while I wash my hands for longer than I really need to.

They’re from all over the world,

those tiny plastic-boxed soaps you get at nice hotels.

One from Copenhagen, Hamburg, Greece, Norway,

and a small ovular tin box that looks like it was hand painted

but probably wasn’t

with the words Stratford-upon-Avon

and a slightly blobby pink flower.



He’s been all these places

and seen more things than anyone could hope to see in one lifetime

and ninety-five years should be enough, right?

He’s seen two wives die and the third is clinging to his hand

while he dreams about dancing and fishing with granddaughters who never catch fish

and reuniting with the daughter he lost

and I’m in the bathroom staring at soap

from Shakespeare’s birthplace.