· poetry

Let me swim, in the cool waters under the shade of the trees beneath the sparkling sun, I will hear your promise, as the roaring whisper of the wind picking up everything in its path.

 

The window ledge is dusty — I’ll admit, I haven’t cleaned in a while; the dust floats, suspended in the still currents inside my kitchen, looking almost as diamonds in the light rays reflected. The wall paint is yellow, I painted them the day you left for main, the day you left the last footprint on my floor, the last dirty dish in the sink, the last random clothing article on my bed — it brightens up the space.

 

Surrender is a fierce friend; the moment can be so sweet and precious, like a swan gliding over still water, or magnificently heart-wrenching, like purging the breath from your lungs with a wooden spoon. Fortunately this surrender came more peacefully, like a clam breeze through the window, subtly waking you from sleep. I want you to know, I would have surrendered it all the same, even if my heart burned with furry.

 

Floating over magnificent sky, teaming with starlight and milky-way breath, life is flouring in the deep waters beneath my buoyant flesh, life is teaming all around me, even the trees speak of your glory as they sway to some silent music you have set inside them.

 

The flow of the world is constant, fluid.

 

I have a box inside my closet, its not very big; filled with memories littered from over the years, stacked up and dusty in the corner and I have the audacity to call them important. How significant are the things we bury away for years at a time, confined to the walls and windows and boxes we cast them into.

 

I wonder about time, if it moves like light waves.

 

Free gliding, recklessly motionless over lily-pad aqua pools and faceless ripples, watching cloud dreams shift above my head to show me figures, animals; the language of the storm-shifters, the rain-givers, the sun-hiders, these tiny giants in the sky coming alive in playful dance.

 

I wish things were different — the hole in the window screen, the hole in my sock, the yellow ones with the flowers on them, they look like old garden beds dug up with the contents emptied out.

 

White pools of abstract light splashed over the leaves and roots; funny how flowers close themselves like cupboard doors when the sun seeps below the horizon, they shut themselves to the darkness; perhaps I too should only emerge in the light.

Sycamore leaves and faded T-shirts, all I can see; toasted almonds, sun-burnt eyes, freckled shoulders and gypsy purple hair ribbons reaching southward in the wind — what right did we have to burn our memories into those wooden beams, exploiting years of heritage like criminals wanted for ransom, then again, you can’t trademark life, and your can’t discount wisdom, and you can’t beat back the innocent hearts of tow people in love.

 

Perhaps you feel like a record, broken and stuck, repeating the same lines day over day, stuck on a single song; I can’t seam to hear the words well enough to move forward.

 

Popsicles, sticky and melting down cool lips, play dough molded and squished, wheel spokes, hair pins, paper planes folded and creased glide in loops not graceful, before they crash-land in the trees above — my mind shifts from cloud to cloud, floating, hanging, suspended in air.

 

The Mayan people build their cities in alignment with the stars, I wonder what it must have felt like for an entire community to be so sure of their place in the heavens. I pray that Jesus would come soon.

 

The neurons fire in my brain, vibrant images peeling back from my eyelids, pasted to the landscape before me; I reach out of the water to grasp a nearby memory, if flips a quick hello and dissolved back into the air. Your scent lingers in this place, your fingers pulling shapes across my spine, the hot breath of your words upon my lips; you permeate this place, scattering my thoughts with the passing clouds. My mind flickers through thoughts — the dusty windowsill, the hole in my sock, hairpins and Popsicles and purple, and you; you are the only memory that refuses to leave me, the only one which grips my sense.

 

By Riah Raine

Let me swim, in the cool waters under the shade of the trees beneath the sparkling sun, I will hear your promise, as the roaring whisper of the wind picking up everything in its path.

The window ledge is dusty — I’ll admit, I haven’t cleaned in a while; the dust floats, suspended in the still currents inside my kitchen, looking almost as diamonds in the light rays reflected. The wall paint is yellow, I painted them the day you left for main, the day you left the last footprint on my floor, the last dirty dish in the sink, the last random clothing article on my bed — it brightens up the space.

Surrender is a fierce friend; the moment can be so sweet and precious, like a swan gliding over still water, or magnificently heart-wrenching, like purging the breath from your lungs with a wooden spoon. Fortunately this surrender came more peacefully, like a clam breeze through the window, subtly waking you from sleep. I want you to know, I would have surrendered it all the same, even if my heart burned with furry.

Floating over magnificent sky, teaming with starlight and milky-way breath, life is flouring in the deep waters beneath my buoyant flesh, life is teaming all around me, even the trees speak of your glory as they sway to some silent music you have set inside them.

The flow of the world is constant, fluid.

I have a box inside my closet, its not very big; filled with memories littered from over the years, stacked up and dusty in the corner and I have the audacity to call them important. How significant are the things we bury away for years at a time, confined to the walls and windows and boxes we cast them into.

I wonder about time, if it moves like light waves.

Free gliding, recklessly motionless over lily-pad aqua pools and faceless ripples, watching cloud dreams shift above my head to show me figures, animals; the language of the storm-shifters, the rain-givers, the sun-hiders, these tiny giants in the sky coming alive in playful dance.

I wish things were different — the hole in the window screen, the hole in my sock, the yellow ones with the flowers on them, they look like old garden beds dug up with the contents emptied out.

White pools of abstract light splashed over the leaves and roots; funny how flowers close themselves like cupboard doors when the sun seeps below the horizon, they shut themselves to the darkness; perhaps I too should only emerge in the light.

Sycamore leaves and faded T-shirts, all I can see; toasted almonds, sun-burnt eyes, freckled shoulders and gypsy purple hair ribbons reaching southward in the wind — what right did we have to burn our memories into those wooden beams, exploiting years of heritage like criminals wanted for ransom, then again, you can’t trademark life, and your can’t discount wisdom, and you can’t beat back the innocent hearts of tow people in love.

Perhaps you feel like a record, broken and stuck, repeating the same lines day over day, stuck on a single song; I can’t seam to hear the words well enough to move forward.

Popsicles, sticky and melting down cool lips, play dough molded and squished, wheel spokes, hair pins, paper planes folded and creased glide in loops not graceful, before they crash-land in the trees above — my mind shifts from cloud to cloud, floating, hanging, suspended in air.

The Mayan people build their cities in alignment with the stars, I wonder what it must have felt like for an entire community to be so sure of their place in the heavens. I pray that Jesus would come soon.

The neurons fire in my brain, vibrant images peeling back from my eyelids, pasted to the landscape before me; I reach out of the water to grasp a nearby memory, if flips a quick hello and dissolved back into the air. Your scent lingers in this place, your fingers pulling shapes across my spine, the hot breath of your words upon my lips; you permeate this place, scattering my thoughts with the passing clouds. My mind flickers through thoughts — the dusty windowsill, the hole in my sock, hairpins and Popsicles and purple, and you; you are the only memory that refuses to leave me, the only one which grips my sense.

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