Wandering around the Arts District of DTLA had me unleashing my inner beatnik. A small percent of you may know I used to write an absurd amount of poetry and prose. So I dug out a few oldies (but goodies), and decided to share them with you. I still have all my writing filed away, waiting for that time when I decide to go ahead and publish a book. Maybe, if you like what you read, you’ll let me know if that’s a good idea…
Top: For Love & Lemons
Beret: Urban Outfitters
Skirt: Azalea James
Choker: Vanessa Mooney
Shoes: Matisse Footwear
“young and old”
in these days we’ll live in love, and like stubborn children we’ll hold on.
becoming untamed by this wild feeling, it lets us loose.
but we’re grown up. surrounded by amber kitchen windows,
where you tuck back my golden hair, kiss my shoulder, tell me to always be near.
i’ll make you promises that i know you trust, to find the gold beneath the husk.
and in the mornings i’ll miss the summer heat, sticky skin and white bed sheets.
now all the birds in the yard have taken off in the wind- it’s the last time i’ll see them
again till spring. you’re black tea eyes are waiting, watching. your fog breath on the window glass.
all the clock’s unnumbered tickings counting out the silence passed,
like when we lay on the naked floor, listening to the rain come in the front door.
and the peace beneath the floorboards seeps sleepily into our skin,
along with aches of the cold in our young and old bones. so slumber-ridden, my tired eyes.
well i love you, my dream boy. i love you as the leaves are born to turn and die.
and even the wind is howling, a simple-minded, jealous cry
because it’s just the same as us- it doesn’t want to know, it wants to feel.
before the sun sets too soon, before the brightness in our eyes fades away.
this season i’m forgetting the crickets, and remembering your laugh.
wrapped in your blanket arms, your comforting truth lasts
as warmth in my fingers from your soft hot palms,
or silence under the winter covers where the trees wait, calm.
and the wild young feeling sleeps inside my veins, they say it’ll only lead me astray.
but everyday i’ll give in to it, for you- my unconquerable soul.
to never die young, to never grow old.
it’s the sound of cicadas harmonizing in the heat, while i drink green tea with a hint of mint, that reminds me of sunburnt hours spent hiding away under green and between pillars of carved bark. those are the times when we discover the simple and true things in life, like blood oozing from scratches and sweat dripping from foreheads and freckles and smiles and laughing with you. when we return to dreams we’re all children again, in pursuit of sunbeams and the familiar touch of bare feet on mossy river rocks. the secret places where we keep our memories of wild strawberries and rope swings and the excitement of climbing trees are overgrown with the sense of wonder and purity and no one can touch that. there, everything was a mystery and everything seemed unreal. but the kind of ‘seemed unreal’ that felt more real to the touch than air or water or anything believable. we were sensationally alive, like trees are when they catch the scent of rain. and all the while we were young and growing up at the same time, and struggling to make fantasy into reality so that life was more like it should be.