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[kyrstenpoetry]

In an stiff house, three floors up, in a room of dull furniture,

a dull man sits, telling the tragic tale of an Eastern castle,

Furnished in the grand designs of legends captured in the halls.

In a moment of valor, he left from the castle in search of reason.

He traversed the coastal ruins, searching, dreaming of his suffering,

masking his pain in an aura of organized spiraling.

In a sensual flight, three tempting thoughts came forward.

He wished them to disappear.

The adventurer goes on traveling on his reservations.

Searching, the adventurer finds a simple, dull ending to his journey.

The Eastern tale satisfies nothing of our search for God

except with images of mauled feet.

[kyrstenpoetry]

Orion’s Bow

Orion’s bow was strung with my great-grandmother’s hair,

Pulled tightly from end to end, golden, graying.

My family roots trace back to the bursting of supernovas,

Skies shattering under the words of my ancestors,

Spilling old blood into the new flesh of today.

We broke the soil with the rays of the sun,

Watering the land in the glow of the moonlight.

From the harvest we pulled strings of starlight,

Weaving tapestries of the legends of kings, and knights,

And countrymen who built their castles.

Each loop of my signature, a collection of centuries of hope,

Poured into the concrete in the foundation of my home.

I am the realization of years of searching for an answer in the stars,

Through the leaves of a spoiled oak tree.

[kyrstenpoetry]

Poker Game of Life

Do not ask me to forgive the hand I have been dealt in life.

I will not fold this round, and accept this as my peace.

I will fight back, and demand more. I will raise the stakes.

I will not be happy with the life I have been given,

I will be happy with the life I forge with my own hands.

I will push back at life, tell it this is unacceptable.

I will recognize my pain, and wear it as a badge.

I will write “An Unhappy Person” on every name tag I am given,

Until one day I can write my own name.

Until one day it changes.

Until one I am happy.

I will not accept this life as my fate, and this situation as my home.

[kyrstenpoetry]

Let Me

Let me carry the strength of my mother in my hands,

not within the thin bones of my bendable back.

Let me carry the dreams of my father in the marrow of my bones,

so my body must break to let them go.

Let me carry the truth of my soul in the chambers of my heart,

so with each pump a piece of it surges through me.

Let me carry the love of my friends in my pocket,

so I may touch it when I feel alone.

Let me carry the hope of my future in the toe of my shoe,

so each step forward will be one step closer.

Let me carry the joy of my life in my mouth,

so each word be savored with its flavor

Let me carry on in my journey to a new home,

not leaving a single piece of me behind.

[kyrstenpoetry]

Grocery List

A dozen eggs

One quart soy milk

Toilet paper

Loaf of wheat bread

Three cans spaghetti sauce

Flowers for Mom

Bag of rice, small

Box of spaghetti noodles

Condolences card for Dad

Blueberry muffin mix

Cinnamon

Ginger tea bags

A reason not to kill myself

[kyrstenpoetry]

I Am Not A Person

I am not a person to them.

I am a half-filled space of a body, to be moved for convenience.

I am a loose thread of a voice, to be cut off immediately.

I am a blank wall of opinions, to be pasted over with posters.

I am not a person to them.

I am a half-opened door, to be pushed aside for entrance.

I am a loose screw in a drawer, to be used another day.

I am a blank page of paper, to be tossed into the garbage.

I am not a person to you.

I am a half-made being, to be formed by forgotten hands.

I am a loose soul in a body, to be released on a forgotten sentence.

I am a blank face in a crowd, to be passed and forgotten.

I am not a person anymore.

[kyrstenpoetry]

Inspired By Baudelaire

Slowly the land is rolled sleepward under a sea of gentle fire.

Bright sparks fly up from the hearth of every home,

Turning gazes upward to the lilac enflamed sky.

The gods are home tonight, celebrating life again.

From each soul that stands beneath them,

Comes a wooden chest full of dreams and faith.

Each piece carved slowly from ancient branches,

Marked with the names given to things forgotten.

Risen from the monoliths of gracious cities--

Destroyed long before words were created--

Comes the beliefs of a people not so different from today.

There, lying beside the plate of bread upon the table,

And within the gentle words of a mother,

Between the eyes and hands of two lovers,

And in the heart of every body,

Lies the essence of humanity.

Love.