Poetry

There was a gathering before the steps.

First, a gaggle of people.

Then passerby joined

as infrequent as the quiet snow.

A great coming of silence

bearing a heavy burden of comfort

as more flocked to the pole and cannon.

And there, frozen stood

a huge body of one mind.

Hands cradled fickle flames,

mourning one snuffed out too soon.

The light passed from each to the next

until the silence was ablaze.

The bugle called Taps

for a life that had just started,

abruptly ended.

For the loss no one could voice.

And in that timeless place we stood together.

In remembrance.

In somberness.

In grief and hurting.

Our skin ached in frigid protest,

our noses red,

our tears, ice.

Each placed their flame

in support.

In grief.

In solidarity and trust.

Eyes cast downward,

blank with despair.

The flame grew larger

as every candle was set.

Yet none could be warm on this,

the coldest night.

A day after a cadet died.

I sit in the bed, staring defiantly at the wall. Seconds have passed since you closed the door, escaping into the shadows of the night.

I lay awake, barely feeling, barely there as I reel with the same feeling that follows every night:

No matter the man

No matter the woman

No matter the time or the place

Complete and utter emptiness. A shell.

A hole in my heart that is filled for a split second when your hands were on me. I felt seen, I felt alive, I felt… better. But then it was over, and I was who I was before. Lonely, ugly, and unloved. A shell, just waiting to be of use again.

As you disappear into the night, only to once again knock on my door in the cover of darkness. Never a word of true value, never a sign of affection.

I let you in, as I am only as good as the purpose I serve to others.

Comforting.

Caring.

Selfless.

Kind.

I am a shell, for I give myself no meaning. I wait for others to give me an ounce of meaning, even if in the end it means nothing.

Her love was warmth in the darkness, hot cider on a cool day. With this warmth was the all-consuming fire, always present, always burning. She had so much to give, because it burned her to let it sit deep in her chest. The love could melt snow off of flowers but could also set a forest ablaze at a moment’s notice.

He just wanted to love her, but the fire would grow too warm. He loved her like he loved the wind in his hair, the thrill of the chase. But as if he was made of wax, he’d melt and leave once again. Only to return after he’d cooled off.

The cycle repeats.

Fiery tears mixed with melted wax.

Slowly her light dimmed, her fire cooled. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? He could stay in her presence longer, but it wasn’t the same. Her touch was ashen and cold, her eyes

burned with something other than love. He didn’t notice, he was just happy that he wasn’t getting burned, overwhelmed.

Her eyes were burning with resentment. She could feel the chill with her whole being, like snuffing out a candle, she felt herself starting to go dark. But she loved him, so she let herself burn dimly, no matter how much it hurt.

When love is foreign,

You hesitate to touch those close to you.

Do friends hug and sit close to each other? Or is that too far?

Will I be seen as overbearing?

Or will they think I am distant and uninterested?

When love is foreign,

You strive for it but can’t accept or acquire it.

When love is foreign,

To be sincere, to say how you truly feel, and be vulnerable.

It feels wrong, inappropriate, and pathetic.

Yet still I want them all to know what I think,

To embrace me, to cry with me, and allow me to listen to them as well.

When love is foreign,

There is a litany of contradictions between your desires and instincts,

The latter of which were developed so long ago,

To a time in which you were not in control,

Influenced by those around you:

Your family and your home.

When love is foreign,

You wish it wasn’t.

You wish it were let in years ago.

When love is foreign,

You must learn to open the door to it yourself,

You must take the initiative to embrace those you love,

Whether it is platonic or romantic.

You must reject all unreasonable doubts you have to the sincerity of those around you.

Learn to trust and feel secure,

And express yourself wholeheartedly.

Because only then can you begin to truly live.

Snow folds the campus into stillness.
Even the flag seems to whisper
instead of a wave.
The steps grow slick,
but they do not move,
centuries of cold have taught them
how to wait.

two to a finity

and the guardrails of Route 2

shining like unwound irises

stacked hemlock needles

frozen oar ripples on Sebasticook Lake

hissing heartily as all things do

in their own sweet forever death

quaking quietly in the immense night

do i go on?

end and beginning

bean heads in geometry on my coffee table

and the magnetism of life outside my door

i will not go empty

i will go with a heart full of love

quaking quietly in the immense night

Inside, I am like an active volcano.

My words boil like magma,

Bubbling and begging to spew out.

They burn and carve away at my skin,

Leaving spots and scars for all to see.

On the outside, I am calm.

My body sculpted in cool clay.

Nowhere near perfect,

Nor do I want it to be.

But as curvy as I am,

I am still too small.

Too small to hold back

The thunder in my mind,

And as the clay that is my skin dries,

So do the cracks begin to appear.

The cause?

Their words.

Lava begins to drip, drip, drip

Down my hips, my arms, my fingers,

Until eventually my body

Can no longer hold the storm in.

My words pour out of me from the gaping hole in my chest.

I destroy their confidence,

Tear them down piece by piece.

It feels good. It feels great.

But once they leave, so does the heat.

Replacing it are cold tears,

Turning the molten rock solid.

And with nothing left to do,

I pick up the pieces of myself.

I seal away the holes,

Patch up the cracks,

And finally breathe.

Why must I scream to be seen?

My mother expected a proper lady.

My father expected a kind heart.

My grandmother expected the future.

My grandfather expected his pride.

My uncle expected a scholar.

My aunt expected better.

My stepdad expected a warrior.

I expected more.

I became

Someone I

Don’t recognize.

Often, in the lonely hour before work begins,

I think of you

Not as the world would have you,

All power and remedy,

But as the small, exact presence

You were on that first day

An ordinary light,

Falling across an unremarkable room.

No trumpets, no wings unfurled,

Just the soft disturbance

Of a being so sacred

Without knowing they’ve crossed a threshold.

Your voice, neither song nor sermon,

Still rearranged the air

A mighty form of claim

That made the space take notice.

Others believe they want to see you shining,

Too bright to look at,

Some blessing flung like confetti

Over the pathetic hours of our lives.

But I have seen how brightness blinds,

How perfection breaks its keepers,

And how the sacred, once named,

Turns brittle in the naming.

Your laugh that tilts the furniture,

Your silences that lean against the walls,

Your meticulous handling

Of the day’s difficulties.

You make a room feel sacred

Not holy, but sacred,

And that is the rarer thing.

So if anyone calls you angel,

Let it be not for shining,

But for the quiet permissions you give:

To speak plainly,

To falter safely,

To stand in the middle of an unglamorous life

And still find light enough.

If angels must be loved,

Let it be like this

Not for what they lift us from,

But for the ordinary ground

They teach us how to stand on.

Whose woods these are, I think I know,

It’s Vermont, full of cold wind and snow.

My puppies bound to and for,

Running back and forth to say hello!

I wish to ski the powder here,

To feel the rush of adrenaline, free of fear.

Between Burke Mountain and Willoughby Lake

Lies the scenic view of Vermont’s wake.

Sitting inside, watching it snow,

I appreciate the warmth, I know.

Of the fireplace crackling,

Its waves of warmth radiating.

My drives home are long, but peaceful,

To see my family, I am so hopeful.

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Love exists within

The space between

My furrowed brows

That says otherwise

I leave the ramblings

Of profound and joyous adoration

Cellar deep

In hopes that one day

My words ferment into sonnets

That you can savor

Sometimes I hear echoes

In the shape

Of beguiled guilt

Somewhere after

“I can’t stand you.”

But not quite before

“I’m sorry.”

Side by side with my siblings under a canopy of blankets

Big box TV pixels blast kaleidoscopes of color, the VHS plastic smell redolent of home

Theme song music overflows into the room

Jovial melodies intermingle with the staccato of my parents fighting

A door slams, an episode starts

We revel in being unsupervised, indulging for hours

It soon ends, nighttime beginning, carrying us to bed like moonlight to low tide

A train that runs on caffeine and spite, puffs out nicotine smoke, and pulls into our lawn

Boxcars carrying our future rattle through our dreams

Hauntingly, a train whistle lulls us back to the waking world

The ocean is power

It makes the weak cower

Sand beneath and in the toes

Buried secret no one knows

Fear is reasonable

The ocean could take you in a wave

Dangers lurk in the dark

Blood thirsty like a shark

It has knowledge of all time

Its waves sequenced like a rhyme

Been around since the start

Makes beautiful works of art

The sea is vast and never ends

More and more around every bend

Response

Put away

the cold-weather clothes

Reflection

that scowl at us

Understanding (Intelligere)

in the aesthetic

standing might

of better trees

Interpretation (Explicare)

visited on us

as a nicer way of being

Application (Applicare)

Some like it summer

I remember feeling conflicted.

Unsure of the emotions I carry.

Uncertain of the memories I replay.

I remember those moments as if they happened merely days ago.

The times I spent listening to you talk.

All of your passions felt like my passions.

All of your goals became my goals.

I remember feeling like I wanted to support you.

In everything life has to offer.

Now I wonder where those feelings went.

I remember those moments as if they happened merely hours ago.

When we were vulnerable and gave our hearts and bodies to each other.

Each night, feeling like bliss.

Each kiss was another key to my heart.

Unlocking all of my insecurities and worries.

I remember feeling safe.

I remember feeling blessed.

Now I wonder where those feelings went.

I remember those moments as if they happened merely minutes ago.

The night when time froze.

The night when my world died.

My future erased.

My Garden of Eden withered away.

All I was left to do was to wonder why.

Knowing no answer given would ever satisfy me or justify it.

Those open locks slowly became gushing wounds.

I never tried to stop the bleeding; I only covered it up.

But the blood soaked through.

Some of the blood hardened and covered up the wounds, some of the blood is still flowing.

I remember feeling lost.

I remember feeling betrayed.

I remember the pain.

And then I remembered that the pain, although intense, is familiar.

I remembered that this is just routine.

Only this shift lasted longer than most.

And that was because I remembered everything.

And now I wonder if it was ever real.

Love is not the lightness we are promised. It is a gravity— the way another soul can pull your ribs apart and call it home.

Love is learning the map of someone’s silence, knowing which pauses mean stay and which mean please don’t ask. It is biting your tongue until it tastes like rust because truth, spoken too soon, can bruise.

Love is giving pieces of yourself with no receipt, watching them walk away wearing your laughter, your phrases, your favorite songs like borrowed coats they may never return.

It is choosing, again and again, to believe in tomorrow while standing knee-deep in yesterday’s wreckage. It is forgiving hands that once trembled in yours and later learned how to let go.

Love hurts not because it is cruel, but because it is brave. Because it asks you to be seen without armor, to risk being shattered for the chance of being held.

And still—even after the sleepless nights,

The almosts, the goodbyes whispered into pillows—we reach for it.

Because somewhere inside the ache is proof that we were alive, that we dared to feel deeply in a world that teaches us how not to.

And that, too, is a kind of beauty.

I dug quietly in the sand,

My fingers stretched back the soft earth.

Committing myself to such a task hurt,

Sand caked tight between my fingernails,

Irritating feeble skin,

And my knees had been reddened by the small rocks.

Yet I kept digging.

I dug quietly in the sand,

Carved walls,

Trenches.

I built within the soft earth a fortified castle.

I could sigh.

I released the pressure on my knees,

Loosened the tightness in my fingernails,

Calmed the beating in my chest,

Unraveled the knot in my throat.

I stood up.

I waited quietly in the sand,

Looked out at the ocean.

There was a sunset,

A whale

In the distance,

A group of people on a boat,

A wave,

Awave.

I watched quietly in the sand,

A wave crashing into my castle,

In the soft earth,

Then washed out to sea.

I fell to the castle on my knees.

The castle was smooth,

Now.

It lost its sharp,

Rigid edges,

It’s precise,

Forensic definition.

I wonder quietly in the sand,

Why did I build a castle,

Right next to an ocean?

But,

I kept digging.

you open the door

you walk down the street in the dark

you climb to the top of a building

you sit on the hard concrete

overlooking the empty cityscape

everything is

quiet

peaceful

you assure yourself that this is what you want

this is the best thing for you—for everyone

it starts to rain

then thunder

it can’t get any worse

sitting

wet

cold

alone

at the top of the building

you calm yourself down

but as your thoughts clear

you assure yourself that this is what you want

this is the best thing for you—for everyone

you stand up

wipe your eyes on your sleeve

you can’t tell if they are wet because of

water

or tears

you slap yourself

annoyed for

crying

you tell yourself you are

weak

useless

burdensome

the rain falls harder

it can’t get any worse

you step up

to the edge

and you stand there

looking down

at your destination

thinking

of nothing at all

then

you jump

falling through the air

you feel weightless

you are finally free

falling through the air

you smile

a half smile

because something is wrong

in the last seconds of your life

you think of your

family

friends

pets

you think of your

teachers

mentors

coaches

you think of

the old lady at the pond, feeding the ducks

that girl in school you’ve always had a crush on

the young child ringing the bell on his bike

as he pedaled down the road

you think of

the sweet, tart taste of an early apple

the feeling of your head molded into your pillow

the gentle breeze of a warm summer’s day

the stunning beauty of fall foliage

the magical, quiet, peaceful falling of snow

as you sit in front of the fireplace

you think of

that seemingly distant feeling

that you’ve never truly understood

but somehow always wanted

and somehow always had

you will never feel it

ever again

love

and

you can taste the salt

of your tears

as you open your eyes

and watch what you have done

then

everything goes black

and stays black

forever.