Whatever You Have to Give

Posted on by sereichert

Hey kids. Today’s blog won’t be long or detailed. For the last three months, I’ve been engaged in trying to support and treat my youngest’s eating disorder on my own. Taking her to multiple appointments a week, doctors and therapists and dietitians. Monitoring every meal with her, coercing and begging her to eat. Lab work, consults, admissions to programs that turned out to be abusive…

I’m in the middle of it.

On Tuesday we admitted her to a better program. But it requires that I be here, in Denver, with her. Monitoring a few meals, learning better techniques, taking her in at 7 and not leaving the facility again until 7. They are long, hard days, filled with meetings and often a lot of tears over grilled cheese sandwiches. We’re lucky to have a space at the Ronald McDonald Charity house and it’s honestly been the biggest blessing. It isn’t home but they provide a safe place to be in the times we’re not in treatment.

This blog is just a reminder…that even on our hardest days and maybe especially on them, I want you, as a writer or poet, to remember the comfort and the break that your craft can be. Even a sentence a day counts. One stanza. A paragraph, a dialogue. Hell, a journal entry (man…I’ve never journaled so much in my life) can work wonders. These things can switch the tracks in your brain for just a few moments, bring you out of the chaos, and into a world you can control, into something brighter. Or make space to hold all of the hard thoughts you can’t put out into the world in the moment.

So that’s it, that’s the blog. Write. A little. Everyday. Use a hospital napkin, or the edge of that overpacked therapy schedule…doesn’t matter. Just stay connected to who you are, and that there are stories still to tell.

Poetry 7-3-25

Posted on by sereichert

Travel leads to thoughts. Interesting new connections and inspirations do too… Travel also leads to not a lot of time getting to sit down and make up blog posts. So I hope you’ll forgive me for posting two poems in a row. This is an older one, not in my current headspace, but always, somehow, tattooed beneath my skin.






Remember Your Lines







What does depression feel like?





Like I want to sleep forever





but every time I fall into that





blissful unconsciousness,





I hope I never come back out





that it’s just a peaceful send off





So long…have a good flight





Don’t call when you get there.





Because…that would be weird





And freak everyone out…





It feels like…





I can’t feel





sunshine, or joy, or pride, or hope





I’m a slab of granite,





wavering on two crumbling pillars of sandstone





stuck in quicksand and sinking





and I don’t care if I go under





in fact, I welcome it and hope





it suffocates me





with calm commands,





breathe in…breath out…and hold





like an MRI of your final moment





but it never tells you





to breath in again





Depression feels like





I have no energy in my synapses





and even if I did, nothing I could do with it





would be worth anything to anyone





least of all myself





Depression is a gray, weighted blanket





only not for comfort, it’s for the unsurmountable load





that life gives you to carry





and you just can’t find a good enough reason





to carry it anymore;





but you can’t find your way out





from underneath it either





Depression is seeing through eyes





that are a movie screen





to an audience that lost its will to care





lacks empathy, doesn’t recognize





Art





or love





or fleeting time





or beauty





Depression is a cage that I shout meaningless words out of,





fake platitudes





in hopes no one else falls into the cage next to me





I’m fine!





You’re fine,





you’re fine, baby girl





you’re fine…





I love you





it’ll be okay





It’ll be okay is tattooed beneath my skin





so that I don’t forget these





lines to a play that I rehearse and repeat,





back to the world that asks





Are you?





Okay?





I look down to the scars I once cut





but can’t cut again; they’ll see





Children learn from watching





so I don’t show,





I tell…





I tell lines





I tell them the lines I need to tell





I tell them,





Though the world is burning around us





and women will never be safe





and human lives don’t matter





cattle for the breeding grounds or





simply to slaughter to the gods of capitalism





Stop!





don’t say that…





don’t project the hopeless…





Read the line





Read the provided line





not the truthful line





of scars….





It’ll be okay





I’m





Okay





You’ll be…





… will you be?





Okay?





Depression is lying to loved ones





so you never have to worry that you’ll be





their downward spiral,





the same scythe of your mother’s loss





that cut you down





Cause we’re all Ok





we just need to…





I just need to





Remember my lines



	


	



					
						


	

		
Retreats, Writers, and the Greater Sum

				

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I’m at the last day of Writing Heights yearly Spring Workshop and Retreat. It’s been a wonderful two days filled with classes, writing time, collaborations, critiques, and conversation. Normally, I don’t do much talking or reaching outside of my happy little home-body shell, so these types of events are rare and sometimes anxiety fueled. 





But when you agree to take leadership of something, you don’t really have the option to sit back and let someone more extroverted take over. I believe that living a decent life has more to do with stepping outside of your comfort than constantly seeking it. And the beauty of it is that the uncomfortable and large becomes like a warm sweater and an intimate evening. I’ve been to a lot of conferences and retreats, but somehow its this group that always feels like coming back home.










If this retreat has taught me anything, its that there are so many beautiful, intelligent, thoughtful and worthy voices in this world that need to be heard. It has taught me that art is not dead, that hope is not lost, and that we are all standing on the edge of something extraordinary. To know we are not alone in the struggle, to know that someone is rooting for us to continue on, and that words still matter maybe even more than ever is enough to lift any downtrodden heart out of the mud. Separate, we are all each a powerful story waiting to be told. Together we are an ocean of love, a battlefield of strength, a universe of humanity, and the unshakeable faith that something greater will be found in the connection to this beautiful tapestry of human consciousness.





My advice to you is this. Live your life with a sense of urgency (not anxiety) and purpose. Live as if you knew you didn’t have forever to waste. Do the thing. Today. Write the words, finish the poem, read it out loud. The love of writing, of learning, and seeing new perspectives is a rising tide against ignorance and hate. The world needs you now. We must not falter. 





Thank you to my amazing writers (yes I’ve claimed you as mine, like a momma duck keeps all her littles safely close) to the teachers who helped me by offering their knowledge and expertise, their warm hearts and belly laughs. I hope if you’re a writer, reading this, then you find a way to meet us in the mountains next time. Bring your heart and all your words.





Next retreat is October 16-19th in Winter Park, CO. Find out more HERE






	


	



					
						


	

		
What Do We Do Now?

				

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It’s that time of year again, when we reset our calendars, back to a clean slate and make a lot of promises to ourselves that this year will be better. That we will be better. Only its a harder world this time around. You’d have to be pretty clueless to not see the deterioration of our society and our environment happening on the daily. Forces beyond our immediate control, who are so much more powerful than they should be. The inequality and stark difference between the few that have and the masses that have not. The magnitude of our environmental mistakes, snowballing into catastrophe… ugh, makes you want to just go back to bed, yeah? 





Only what if we don’t? What if instead of accepting our broken and unjust system, we did something about it? Do you realize how many we are? Do you have any idea how revolutions work? It isn’t only the richest, brightest, and most powerful 1%. It is is the rest of us, standing up to say ‘no more’. Stopping our cog in the machine, putting to halt the system that works for only a few, and wears the rest of us out. Not giving in to hate and lies, not allowing our rational brains to get whipped into a frenzy by sensationalized and one sided news sources. Knowing that the truth of humanity, our shared existence and our common bonds is what those in power fear most. Because if we ever organized against them, the ‘let them eat cake’ knows they would not survive. 





Am I calling for revolution? I dunno.





Are people dying of hunger? Are people being denied basic human rights? Are people dying because they’re can’t afford medical care? Are we imprisoning the poor for profit? Are we being refused a living wage? Are we having our energy and our art stolen by the heartless, greedy and belching machine that is AI? Is our environment being destroyed on the daily to pad the portfolios of people already too rich to spend it all? Short answer, yes.





But revolutions can be more than just war on the streets. They can come with lifting up communities, speaking out against injustice, refusing to work in unsafe conditions, turning off the noise of all the talking heads, reading books, speaking out, helping others. Revolutions can happen in our daily lives by refusing to live in the way we’re told we must.










I put together a yearly list, as usual, but this year I did something different. Instead of pushing through to commercially gained goals or pant sizes, I looked at what would help make me a better, stronger, more compassionate and purpose driven person. 





You see, when we’re all worried about wrinkles and thigh size, we’re not dismantling the systems of injustice. If we’re worried about our 401K, we’re not thinking of our fellow human beings. Sometimes, just being content with your soul, resting in a hustle culture, and pursuing art and clarity is a radical act of rebellion. 





When you sit down to think about your year, I hope you think about how you will defy the ignorance, hurt, and anger that’s permeating society currently. How will you choose to treat your fellow human beings, what work will you do, what purpose will you serve. I urge you to do something beautiful this year. I’m asking you to set your sites on being unswayable when it comes to justice and peace. I’m asking you to take to the streets when the time comes, and to stand up for your fellow human beings. I’m asking you to pursue a higher purpose, not in some deity, but in the pursuit of a better world for all of us. You’ve already got skills, find a way to use them to uplift. You’ve got talents and two hands. Use them for something that dismantles the systems that keep us all down. 





Care for yourself, and others. In a world of mass production and garnering likes for self worth, shut off your social media and live in your skin. Rest when you need rest, push when you feel driven, and above all, do not lose hope.

	


	



					
						


	

		
Standing at Attention

				

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Hello Writers…


I came across this blog from a few years ago. I no longer am blessed to teach Martial Arts (due to some pretty awful happenings at my former dojo and a level of patriarchal bullshit I can’t even dive into right now). But I’ve been teaching a lot this year about creativity and this blog struck me as something that fell in line with the concept. So, without further ado…


Today I’m talking about kids. Particularly the three to eight crowd whom I typically work with in my karate classes. You see, this week is testing week.


It’s the exciting hours when those little bright-eyed darlings bound out on the floor (hopefully remembering to potty first and bow before crossing the threshold of the mats) to ‘earn’ their brand new belt and no doubt bragging rights the next day.


Now heading the school’s instruction team is a stoic former Marine and a stalwart of rules and order on the floor. Absolutely excellent in the face of a rowdy teen or an unsure adult in need of the structure and control.


Absolutely useless and frustrated in the face of the giggling, juggling mass of pent up life force.


And testing time is rarely different.


Though the potential for their future of order and restraint is glimpsed (and I suppose that’s why they come to the school in part) some of the instructors will roll their eyes at the still inadequate control. Meanwhile, I stand in the back and lament the beauty of their childhood being chipped away.


I was told repeatedly that “the Dragons class will eat you alive”. Both male instructors said so, shaking their heads and trying to bury the horrors of such a war. I nodded, in that reassuring way you do when someone has no idea.


Son (I call them son because I’m grow’d up over them by a few good years), I’m a mom. And on top of that, I’m a mom that actually enjoyed the ages of my daughters when I had to staunch nose picking while watching them ping-pong off the couch and sing “Let It Go” at the top of their lungs. Every day. All day. Seven days a week, most nights, and EVERY vacation.


So when those little bouncy balls landed on line tonight, wiggling in their gis until their belts untied themselves, and the jaws of less-seasoned warriors clenched, I glowed. I smiled. I adored and doted on.


Want to know why?


One of the greatest beautiful moments in life is when the life in us cannot be contained in man-made illusions of order. It’s in the misdirection and distraction. It’s the exuberance and unconditional love. It’s all that we lose as we age, either by the weights of life tying us down, or from being told repeatedly to stand straight and stop wiggling.


Ok. I understand that order has to exist. Ask any of the poor souls on I-25 while the uninformed attempt to merge. We do have to learn order and self-control. Or everyone would just live on cake and would never go to work, and we’d get into fights and stray from our taxes… I’m not saying that order isn’t important.


But order imposed on a mind still fluttering like a million startled butterflies in a sunny meadow, is like trying to…well, catch a million startled butterflies in a sunny meadow. At some point. You need to just let go and enjoy the ride and the sunlit flash of pure color. Keep them safe, keep them engaged, and love every odd-ball story and uncontrolled giggle.


I hope you realize by now, that I’m not just talking about kids here. Think about the people in your life, and what it would mean if we all encouraged, especially the adults in your life (You TOO reader), to barrel through it all with a bit more frivolity and joy.


Sometimes we’ve been so long from those two things, that we’ve forgotten how. It’s not so hard to find your way back. Here are some things that may help:


Go barefoot in the grass


Dig for worms, put them back in the garden.


On the way to your car from the grocery store, work up a good speed and hop on the back of your grocery cart…ride it all the way to the car.


Say no. To them. To yourself…to every “how to be perfect” blog or article you read.


Read the comics first and throw the rest of that shit away.


Go for a bike ride with your kids around the block and name your bike like the noble steed it is.


Tell a dirty joke.


Laugh at dirty joke.


Laugh at a fart.


Fart (and pull the covers over your spouse’s head so that they may truly enjoy it…if your marriage is really meant to last it won’t matter. If it matters well…then I’m going to let you think about that for awhile)


Belch in front of your kids, and follow it with a “Holy cow! That was awesome!”


Grab a bowl of lucky charms and watch some cartoons (Teen Titans is my fav these days).


Wiggle


Dance


Sing “Sweet Caroline” LOUDLY out your car window at the stop light. Those who don’t join in or at least smile are to be pitied.


Never say no when a child wants a hug.


Always kneel down to meet them, their perspective is so much better anyway.


Tell people you love them.


Tell them you love them without needing it to mean anything more than just what it is.


Move on.


Forget.


Someday, remember just the good bits, fondly.


You see, kids and older people get what we’ve forgotten. That the beauty of life comes from the dancing in chaos, not the standing still on line.


Still, go potty before you try the standing still…it does help the wiggles.

	


	



					
						


	

		
Poetry 2-22-2024

				

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I know its still Winter, but these are the gray months that beg my mind wander back to the comfort of knowing Spring will come again. I don’t really know how many more Springs the world has left. It’s all so complicated and teetering on death, isn’t it? We take so much for granted, we kill, and destroy, and maim and use up…as though there is no other fate left us, no generations in our wake that have to live in the wake of our destruction… How ridiculous and short-sighted humans are. We absolutely deserve everything Nature throws at us.






Photo by Alesia  Kozik on Pexels.com






Spring Beneath

The shudder of new leaves
arriving to a world 
in its heyday of destruction 
is such bitter sweetness

Life, searching to be, 
striving to find its balance
even when we've already tipped the scales
too far
    for hope

I mourn these spring petals
littering the ground,
beauty fallen to lifeless concrete
and wonder, 
what she ever did
   to deserve us.

	


	



					
						


	

		
Learning to Say Yes Again

				

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Gentle readers, its been a tough 9 months to say the least. In all actuality, it’s probably been more like a tough year. Year and a half? The point is, I can’t remember feeling good, and so this haze of depression and anxiety has been with me for too long a while. It transcends my short term memory cut off date. 






Photo by Evelyn Chong on Pexels.com






That’s not to say wonderful things haven’t happened this year. They have. I’m eternally grateful for the opportunities and experiences I’ve been given (and earned). But all totalled, this last year has been the equivalent of having half my heart ripped out while the other half worked in vain to make up the difference. It was doable, it was survivable, but it wasn’t living.





Time may not heal all things, but time gives you the tools to learn how to go on living despite your losses, and the perspective to help you learn from those losses. In that period of learning and readjustment, I didn’t do a lot of saying yes. Only when absolutely necessary. Only when I couldn’t afford not to. And rarely to things that threatened to open the stitches of my past wounds. I just didn’t believe I was strong enough to suffer that kind of blood loss. I was barely strong enough to make it through the benign and even the enjoyable events of my post-loss world.






Photo by George Shervashidze on Pexels.com






But a few weeks ago, I said yes. To something I thought I’d never be able to do. A small step. Hardly a big deal for most people on the outside of my traumatic experience, but kind of an epic ordeal for me. And it brought up a lot of feelings and emotions and tugged at those stitches, now solidly grown into my heart and skin…but it did not tear them. And it did not sign a contract, and it did not change my mind about certain things. But it wasn’t as painful as I thought it would be, as I feared it would be. It wasn’t impossible. 





That one yes, opened opportunity. Not to go backwards, by any means, but to have the choice to go forwards. Sometimes saying yes, reminds us of our ability, our strength, and the experience we earned through going through some kind of awful shit, that leaves us stronger and more prepared to set boundaries and protect ourselves. 






Photo by Stijn Dijkstra on Pexels.com






I’m saying yes more now. Yes, to events I would have bypassed before, yes to opportunities and possibilities. Yes to challenges that keep me from being stagnant. Yes to moving on. Yes to resting when I need to rest, and yes to pushing my comfort level when I’ve grown too at ease.





Yes to myself. To my future, to the things that I want as part of my distant horizon. I’m leaving the no’s behind me. The ones that showed me what wasn’t meant for me. What didn’t deserve me. I’m leaving behind old hurts, but taking the scars to remind me. How strong I am. How capable I am, How I own the capacity to say yes, and mean it.

	


	



					
						


	

		
Process and Perfection

				

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Photo by Gu00fcl Iu015fu0131k on Pexels.com






Look at us, surviving (nearly?) another summer, a Camp NaNoWriMo, and one of the most interesting and invested writer’s strikes in a while. I’m so proud of those on picket lines and, though I still produce my blog, I do so for the other writers out there, and for my own sanity. That being said, if you’re a writer, artist, (struggling or not) or simply someone who believes in the arts, keep your eyes and your voices raised. This battle is one that is fought on every screen, newspaper, and blog post. Support all of our artists and dreamers. Because creativity is not just the source of our humanity, it is the building blocks of our survival. Engineers build bridges but someone must first imagine the bridge. You know what I mean? Survival takes all the bright and brilliant we can offer as species, so support all the bright and brilliant with a living wage, and do not pay into the corporate machine.





Okay–let me just….step down from that…soap…box (grunt). Now! Where was I? Well, I’ve been promoting and reviewing and doing all sorts of extraneous writing/marketing fluff, so today I wanted to get back to writing and talk about PROCESS.





If you’re a writer, I know you own at least three to 50 books on writing. And every single one of those offers you advice, usually from someone who “made it” in the world. We could say “experts” in the field. And where, yes, there are some constants that should be paid attention to (the book won’t write itself, you do have to put in the time, no its not easy, yes you will fail…repeatedly) I want you to take my advice (Ha! hypocrite!) on these few things…





Why take my advice? I’m not Stephen King, or Dan Brown, or Robin McKinnley, or Connie Willis…Who TF do I think I am? Well, beyond the fact that I’m a pretty average writer, with a good community, and an interesting background…I care. I actually care about your success as a writer (see above rant about artists and creatives).





And the thing about us, is that no single writer is in the same life or head space as the next. Stephen King isn’t raising two toddlers and working full time. Connie Willis isn’t supporting a family of seven with a night shift job. I’m not trying to cope with dyslexia or ADHD… We are all on a similar journey but we’re not all wearing the same shoes. Some of us may not even have shoes. And it may be night. And there are wolves chasing us…okay…back on point…





    

  1. PROCESS ISN’T AN ABSOLUTE: No singular way to write is the RIGHT way to write. (that’s a lot of goddamn ‘right/writes’) Write everyday, write in the morning, write at night, sit in the chair and don’t come out until you’ve got 5,000 words…NO. There’s absolutely no truth to any of this. While, you do have to write (to be a writer) how and when are defined by your life, your energy, your day, and your ability. And ALL of those factors continually change (especially if you’re a parent or care giver, work multiple jobs, have learning challenges or are facing mental health crises). SO–your process is your process and it might look like 15 minutes in the morning and 20 minutes at lunch, and note taking during your kid’s practice, and daydreaming in the bath. Which leads me to the next absolute.
    2. 




  2. NOT ALL WRITING IS WRITING: WTF does that mean? Well, daydreaming, is writing, downtime with a movie that inspires you, is part of writing. Getting a good night’s sleep and going for a walk are all parts of the writing process. The human brain is not meant to be stimulated the same way for hours on end. It’s complex, it needs variety. It needs challenge, it needs downtime. Nearly every writer I know has said…”It wasn’t until I took a break, and a walk that I got through that problem.” You can’t bash your brains against a plotline and hope the hole gets fixed. Being a writer is in large part being a shiftless daydreamer. So don’t discount the times you’re not in the chair clacking away.
    3. 




  3. ONLY YOU SET YOUR LIMITS: This is both to the advancement and detriment of your craft. Someone says you should write 2000 words every day, but you are struggling to get 700, or maybe you’re throwing down 5000 words in one afternoon and don’t write for a few days…You are responsible for the ‘rules’ you make about writing and only you know the best possible route. I have a lovely friend, brilliant, funny and talented, who struggled with her first book, until she realized that she didn’t need to write every day. And that night writing wasn’t her thing and that she had to ‘let’ herself be okay with what her brain and her heart needed on whatever day the universe was giving her. Brav-Fucking-O I say to that. How many of us ascribe to preordained writing gospel only to be disappointed that we are failing that particular process? And what happens when we get discouraged? We stop writing. We fall into self-blame, and defeatism, and a general giving-up on ourselves and our work because we’re not a ‘real writer’. KNOW YOURSELF, TRUST YOURSELF. GIVE YOURSELF THE TOOLS, SPACE, and PROCESS YOU NEED.
    4. 






Well, that’s all I have for today. Get out there, or go inside, sit down or walk around and take voice notes. Take a bath, take a walk, spend three hours at a desk, or fifteen minutes at a coffee shop. Just write. In the best way you know how.






	


	



					
						


	

		
Spring Cleaning and The Writer’s Mind

				

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Sometimes, at the beginning of the year when I’m trying to plan out my blog posts, I will randomly insert a brainstormed title with no idea where it will lead. The above is a case in point. I love the concept of brainstorming but it often makes me look back at past Sarah with a scowl (‘whatdafuq does spring cleaning have to do with the writer’s mind, Sarah? Whatwereyouthinking?) 





So now, I’m going to attempt to free-style on the topic of “Spring Cleaning”.





Photo by Taryn Elliott on Pexels.com





To be fair to past Sarah, she knew this blog would come around the time of the spring equinox which is a brilliant time to clean out homes, old clothes, ancient ideas…anything that’s not serving you, from your too-tight college jeans to the ideal that says you still should fit into those. Throw that baggage out. 





At first I considered telling you to do the very practical, literal cleaning out of your laptop, files, and paperwork. Grouping together like-minded topics, removing old or already published notes that are no longer needed, and generally getting yourself a clean slate for the year ahead. But as I started to look through my own little chaos, the temper of the idea changed.





No one’s desk is probably more a mess than mine. It looks fairly ordered but the truth is, it’s a jumble of post-its, three-word ‘grand ideas’ scribbled in crayon on lunch napkins or old receipts, and seven different rewrites of the same novel that I have absolutely no reason to still hang on to. I have letters from old high school friends, squirmy notes about boys we liked and the bittersweet ones after our subsequent heartbreaks. I’ve got writing notes from conferences, random journals of poetry, thank you cards with mismatched envelopes, and the last letter my grandmother Emma sent me before she passed away. I’ve got pictures of the two friends I lost after high school and the tiny pamphlets from their funeral services. I have the fuel receipt from my first solo flight. And a certificate from my training as an early childhood educator.





I have my winning poetry from 8th grade Young Writers competitions, and the short story that lost magnificently about star crossed lovers on either side of the Berlin Wall (fuck yeah, I’m that old). And its jumbled and slung into folders like a field of wildflowers, contained in manila.





Nothing is in order, but everything has its place. 





Perhaps I should go through. Let go of some of this history. Let go of the girl I used to be and the dreams she used to dream. I should stop looking to the past and wondering what I could have done, or been. How brightly I used to burn, when I was young and half-wild. Maybe we should all, let go. Clean out the things in our life that no longer look like our current state.





And in some ways, I suppose it is good. Sometimes we use these things to look back, to regret or be stuck in a cycle of ‘what if’…in some ways that can hold us back. But somethings also remind us of who we are. Sounds silly but–if you’re anything like me, and you’ve spent most of your life, trying to fit into boxes, shrink down, be smaller, be ‘easier’ to love, or be what you think people want…it can get so easy to become lost. 





So maybe you read your grandma’s last letter. And your best friend’s note about her no good boyfriend, or that first draft you kept for no reason, and you let them all take you back for a moment. To the person you were, the person who was just a bit more trusting. A bit more bright. Before the world sanded down your edges and made you behave. Maybe you remember that these are pieces of you that are still in there. That cannot be fully swept away. 





That you are still, even in small ways, young and half-wild. 





Maybe I’ll toss the other six drafts. Maybe I’ll get rid of any napkins and three-word ideas that I can’t connect to. Maybe I’ll donate the books I know I won’t read, and let go of the thank you notes with no matching envelopes.





Photo by Anastasiya Lobanovskaya on Pexels.com





But I’ll keep everything else that makes up the story of me. So on days when I feel like I belong too much to the world and the other people around me, I can return to that girl, that wildling burning bright, and remember who I am. The girl who’s been a poet since she was 12. The girl who believed love could tear down walls on a grand, societal level. The girl who misses her friends, who promised to fill her days with the life they never got to finish. The girl who refused to shrink.





Clean up your space, but leave the layers of your soul intact. They are the story of you, and no one else can tell that story.






	


	



					
						


	

		
Poetry 5-20-2021

				

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Photo by Keenan Constance on Pexels.com





Lost Things





Of all the things





I miss the most





it must be the weightless





loss of care.





The summer’s days,





kicked out of walls





adventures lived





and dreams built





out of coffee cans





and warped two by fours.










Of all the things





I miss the most,





it’s the softness





of a first kiss





the anticipation and yearning





before politics





or power plays





muddled the field





and made every touch of passion





a pawn on a game board.





something to be won





something to be earned.





something lost.





Of all the things





Photo by Kristina Paukshtite on Pexels.com





I miss the most,





It must have been their tiny hands





wrapped around my finger





and the sleepy warmth





of their heads tucked





into my shoulder





we were safe there,





just the three of us.





Before the world came down on them





with screens and images





of unreachable ideals





skipping meals and





pinching skin.










Of all the things





I miss the most





It was feeling





like the world was someplace





magical and filled





with potential for





the good





the better





the brighter future ahead.





Before the dark gray blanket





covered my eyes





and suffocated all





dawning hope