my grandma plays the ukulele

although she doesn’t yet know the strings,
she walks along the beach every morning
at seven o’clock sharp,
never looking for seashells,
always singing about the sun…

old toes barefoot on sand
in a crisply washed, fruity sundress
that billows like a kite

cheerfully anchored to the shore
with books of poetry
and index cards of homemade recipes
and fourty-minute phone calls with
strange aunts who live in Michigan

she cannot sing well but joins
the ukulele circle every morning
along the beach, and she’s taking lessons
starting this June to learn how to play,

but I swear, somehow she already knows
its sunny rhythm.

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boxed wine blues

spills into the empty marketplace
of my useless poems.

i am dizzy with the illusion of love,
its whispers of fear,
my heart shudders to recognize,

it remains scattered, yet coalesces
like a hive mind, within the DNA
of a billionaire’s multitude:

where i’m unchartable and rigidly anonymous.

Tinder Drummer Boy

there is a small, missing chunk of skin
from my right ear that makes me
feel sorted like a meandering cattle.

i remember little, besides
the aftermath. lying underage
we met at your neighborhood bar
and i followed you drunken, half-witted
home to your punk rock basement
where you played drums
and the whole world
spun like a disco.

this was five years ago,
but i don’t forget
how i awoke: bloodless in heart,
earring ripped from cartilage,
confused about my next train,
for the soul of a lost girl
flapping in the dirty wind
of a metropolis.

i walked home, stopping halfway
to draw a sketch of drumsticks
in an otherwise empty notebook
with a force much stronger
than words.

I’ve written so many poems

and in the past year or so, shared few. I’m debating whether or not to create a new blog since I’ve felt so many changes in my writing approach since its beginning. I started with shameless idealism. I got too serious. I experimented. I overdid it. I “quit” for a year and a half and stumbled back. I got lost. Reemerged. Took a leap of faith and found it again…. and now, I’m fighting for something brighter…but I don’t quite know what…

It’s funny how my hate and love for these poems oscillates. I see beauty in many and ridicule others. A few no longer make any sense. Plenty feel like diamonds in the rough–strong concepts + imagery that have potential–if only I gave them a bit more focus… I see places that I edited too much and unintentionally whittled away. And occasionally, I marvel.

The best version of myself feels grateful they’re all here, as well as a little regretful for the times I didn’t believe in them.

I’ve been experimenting with many new forms lately: journalism, copywriting, feature stories, flash fiction, creative non-fiction, satire, and even screenwriting. Poetry will always be my heart though. It’s the first form that ever made sense and the only one that has ever been intuitive.

So, if anyone is still listening, here’s more poems–and possibly some other structures. Thanks for being here.