Poetry, Uncategorized

A People Person

 

I have come to realize that I am no longer an introvert, and perhaps I never was.

I like being alone sometimes, but not too much.

I need time, to recuperate, mend and think; a pause from the noise and filling it with my own music.

But I love people.

I love their faces, mind and bodies, all varying and authentic.

I love the words that pour from the mouths, some vulgar and others gentle and pleasant.

And my friends whose minds are like an open book,

Whose jokes make me choke with laughter

Whose closeness sometimes too close, I become irritable when I see their faces too often.

Even the people I do not know, with fluorescent signs above their heads reading:

“Enter with caution”

and

“Interpret gently”

They are a cog in a machine that begs me to ask how it works.

All of these people, and these people places.

Like my apartment, marked by the habits of those whom habit it

and marked by those who came before.

A lecture hall, with students dozing off, eyes glazed to screens

while their professor goes on tangents about their daughter.

Or at the back of a party in a cloud of smoke, hands grasping red plastics cups

filled with liquid that greases our gears, making it easier to open up.’

How I wonder what I could learn with their lips on mine, like my questions did their minds.

I am an extrovert.

A sieve, straining through people’s goodness and people’s badness, sitting on the shore of their lives

letting each wave crash over me.

~

Image: yannic_vom_kanal

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Poetry

Sea Glass, a free verse poem

This poem just came to me, and its super chaotic with absolutely no structure, but I hope you can look past that and enjoy what I’ve written. Tell me what you think: 


The beach is sprinkled, tossed with shapes

Swallowed by the mouth of the ocean and licked by its waves

The shards of glass are softened, smoothed down, worn down

Now spit up and gargled, sitting

On the billion-particle lip of the Earth

 

Here one sits in the palm of my hand

Its coin sized and shapeless and olive green

Cloudy in texture, like artist erased its sharp edges

In which she pressed and frictioned every last bit

Of the glass’s sheen

 

It is a missing piece, maybe a puzzle piece,

The nose of some bottle

Broken

Perhaps if I let it sit there a little longer

Then it would no longer be

It would’ve rather been broken down in in the belly of the sea

Grated down to a pulp that nature had foreseen

 

In my palm the shard sits and I imagine

a person in a factory

Sweating

Blowing the bottles soon filled with blood red wine

And drunk by a pot bellied man who stained his lips

Pink and fat like a swine

 

Or perhaps it was a pastor at the step of a church

Filling the void with blessed words

As the people are prodded, swaddled, poked like a herd of sheep

Sipping each word like a sacred nectar

As the glass, picturing their saviour at the steep

Breaks their faces into different hues

 

Or perhaps it wasn’t anything extraordinary

Perhaps it was a glass in some nice cabinetry

 

But still in my hand it sits and I imagine other hands

From their hands sewn

In Earth’s sweltering heat, the lime, the soda, the sand

A creation she could not do on her own

Still a story, unwritten and unravelled

 

While standing at shore, water pestering my feet

I place the piece of glass down beneath

The bed of rocks, and shards, and shells

Back to land, the molten Earth, where it came to be