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Dead Weight Poems Wave Two


Man Pounding

Pounding heart when she enters the room and

pounding hard-on because her kiss is replaying his fantasies and

pounding emotional effort rebuilding her trust because he lost it.

Pounding feet chasing after the children he’s promised to raise and

pounding life from the exhaustion of full work days and baby up at night.

Pounding down dreams he won’t ever give up and

pounding gravity to escape velocity and

pounding against what he almost knows but can’t quite say.


Hard Way Harder Way

Fetal position. Crying on the floor. Rock bottom.

Then I’m open to an honest conversation with myself.

Then my intuition is sharp.

God give me a message! I am listening now.

I pick myself up from the floor, guide myself
into an improved relationship with myself, and walk

into my next chapter. Months, years or a decade later,
I either remember or don’t. I have either learned the hard way

or the harder way.

 

wave one | wave two

Sunday Newsletter: Dead Weight Poems

I sometimes write poetically, but I’ve never considered myself a writer of poetry, and yet I have collected poems that speak to me my entire life.

What I have here isn’t what I would call poetry. Instead, I consider them small “ditties” that I’ve whittled.

I call them “Dead Weight” poems because after awhile, these “ditties” want release else I’m just lugging around dead weight. These little pieces are the forest floor of my journal.

These “ditties” are in constant production. I try to let them sneak out the back door yet would also betray myself I didn’t post them here. It’s the documentarian in me that uses these “ditties” to mark time.

I call this collection of two “Wave One” because that’s enough (but not all) of the content I think one should gulp in one sitting.


Dead Weight Poems Wave One

 

Impatient Heart

My impatient heart
has wanted nothing more
than to rise up, and rush

into all the unsettled

complacence. That might be the anxiety

of perpetual insecure attachments,

or of falling in-love itself,

but oh how genuine the love making is!

I’ve lived one woman at a time,
scattered episodes,

I have not resolved
the impermanence of love.

And. I have so often felt foolish because

​the deck
​in​side my heart
shuffles
​and there I am living the opposite of what I said.

I don’t know

what to make of aging once my children have gone.

My heart both fears

and longs for
doing the same handful of things

with the same person,

both settled

and unsettled,

living
day
to day

until

death

do

us

part.


Last Parts

The best part of us
drank toasts for better days,
leaned into our best selves,
loved on the weekends,

staggered

shoulder to shoulder
down empty streets at 2 a.m.
balancing our way

together

home
where our private parts
pushed and pulled

together

as if to erase
an inevitable reality
that we hoped we
wouldn’t wake

resentful

with nostalgia.

 

wave one | wave two