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You are an artist
and I am a writer
and so I knew
that breaking
commandments
would be a given.
You and I are better
as a story and on skin.
Your fits are brutal
with words like fists
and mine are choreographed
complete with maudlin tears
melted canvases
broken beer bottles
my collection of ceramic owls
and my words in a basket
and a loud and clear, Fuck You.
We are children
pretending to be
grown ups by
paying the bills
looking both ways
tying our shoes laces
wearing seat belts and
whispering at the library.
But truly
we just want to strip down
and let the waves
the wind
the moon
and whatever higher power
has a hold of us
to set us free.
My heart is paper.
When you tare it out
I fold it into Yoda
or a Lotus Flower,
and I place it gently
into your hands.
You are always impressed
and so you take me back.
We are mostly about the exits
and the entrances aren't we?
Always happy to see each other
after some time apart.
And the shelf where I
keep my owls is always empty.
It was the year of good hygiene
and fatal diseases.
It was the year of sketching fruit
and cutting the sleeves off of her blouses.
It was the year of coloring books
and reading Tolstoy.
It was the year of free love
and monogamy.
It was the year of innocence
pig tails, pink, and plush.
It was the year of no religion
and finding God.
It was the year of driving without a seat belt
and saying fuck rules, fuck shrinks, and fuck you.
It was the year of painting
every room "Buttercup Yellow."
It was the year of nightmares
and eating in bed.
It was the year of hating mothers
and loving fathers.
It was the year of being a republican
and falling in love with democrats
It was the year of bandaged wrists
and throwing away knives.
It was the year of loving her feet
and hating her hands.
It was the year of avoiding cats
and collecting puppies.
It was the year of seeking truth
and sewing the sleeves back onto her blouses.
It was another year of not knowing
who she is and pretending that she does.
In this small town
the mayor's niece
is a stripper and
the good old
Irish boys own the bars
and there is
a long standing factory
that makes
peanut butter and ketchup
my two favorite condiments.
This village
is so tucked away
that it seems we are
safe from
nuclear, chemical
and holy annihilation.
There is
a comfort and
a loneliness
in that thought.
When you fall
in love here
you have
park benches
and fountains
you have
Victorian porches
and rambling creeks.
Falling in love here
can be idyllic.
When your heart
is broken here
in Wyeth country
and when the bars
on every corner
become your churches
it is nothing more
than poetic misery.
The nagging cough
The sludge
The pale
The stale
The gossip
The seasons
give false hope
hope of change.
It is the seasons
that keep me here.
The first snow
The melt
and than the green
the beautiful green
The seasons
is why I stay.
such stark differences
are something like a dream
The summers
Oh the summers
The tender green
The hydrangea
The sudden skin
The barbecue
The nectar
The buzz
The hum
The breeze
the breeze
I'll leave after Christmas
After the New Year
It's spring time
and I think I'm falling in love.
Holly had one of her poems published in a South Florida talent magazine titled WeMerge. You can find more of Holly's poetry at: her MySpace page.