Tag Archives: poets

Vorfreude

Who knew?

English has words for all kinds of emotions I never knew existed.

Sometimes you just can’t know until it’s happened to you.

 

Vorfreude, to me is:

If you’ve ever had a quarter or mid-life crisis you know your brain can tell you to do strange things.

Like quit your job and leave the country.

 

Let me explain.

It started with the election.

No, really.

I was — pretty mad (I am still mad, for the record). What the actual hell America?

 

Being a completely irrational human being I decided to only way to combat my anger was to leave.

Actually leave the country.

(I tend to run from my problems)

 

So on a whim I applied for some jobs overseas.

Well — one of those jobs overseas panned out.

 

In January, just over a month from my 28th birthday — I interviewed for a job in Japan.

And reader,

just a week shy of my 28th birthday,

I accepted the job.

 

A nervous, anxious, excited ball of energy I resigned from my teaching job.

A job I really wanted to love, but couldn’t.

A job I really could’ve loved, but was ruined for me by things out of my control.

This was February.

 

Since February I have been anxiously preparing my language skills, eating techniques, mannerisms.

Since February I have anxiously waited for details on my arrival.

 

Still — I wait.

With every ring and ding, my heart skips a beat.

Wondering if this might be the call.

The e-mail.

The one that tells me when and where.

 

I wait, ever more anxiously,

wondering when I’ll leave my home, friends, and beloved dogs.

 

If you’ve ever done something crazy like decided to move halfway around the world,

you too know the feeling.

 

It is indescribable.

Alas….I still wait.

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Death & Rebirth

With the years I have become increasingly comfortable with the cycle of life.

The cycle of life is much more than physical birth and physical death.

Life

Is all the life and death in between.

 

As a writer

I like poetic language —

I like similes and metaphors

Hyperbole and alliteration (see what I did there)

 

I also tend to see the world in all it’s own poetry

And there is life and death

Everywhere

All the time.

 

See,

Life and death takes many forms

Yes, of course there is physical giving of life and physical taking of life.

Literal: life and death

But there is much more life and death than just the beginning and the end.

 

There is life in starting school.

Learning to read and write

Learning to add and subtract

And growing those skills and understanding until

You graduate

The metaphorical death of your schooling (but let’s be honest: one should never stop learning)

 

There is life in falling in love

The euphoria of connectedness with someone you adore

Understanding on a level you thought was impossible

Then you break up.

The metaphorical death of your love

 

Reader,

I think you must get the idea.

 

People will come and go from your life.

People you were once very close to will change.

You will change, too.

Any maybe, it just won’t work like it used to.

 

As I have gotten older,

I have become content with the cycle of death and rebirth that takes place in every facet of life.

 

Friends will come.

Friends will go.

Again —

I think you get the idea.

 

But it is what comes after the life and death that is vital.

 

Rebirth.

The phoenix rising from the ashes.

Allowing you to be born anew.

To see with fresh eyes.

 

It may never be easy to die,

Or rather,

To let things die.

 

But

It is possible

To become something more.

October’s Lack of Inspiration

October.

The month of fall.

The month of cool, crisp air.

The month of sweaters, tall boots, pumpkins, candy, costumes, and spooky things.

 

I used to love October.

Now, October is so busy I have no time to think.

No time for creativity.

October has lost it’s inspiration.

 

I want to write,

But my brain is tired,

And the words don’t come.

 

I want to read,

But my eyes are tired,

And can’t focus on the words. 

 

October used to be my favorite month.

Now, I can’t wait for October to be over.  

Monster

There’s a monster inside my head.

She is dark.

She is bleak.

She does not believe in love or happiness.

 

The monster inside my head

Sometimes she is quiet

Sometimes she’s an introvert

But she is always watching,

Waiting;

On bated breath,

To pounce on any inclination

Of self-doubt

Of self-consciousness

Of blissful unawareness

 

There’s a monster inside my head.

She’s a disrespectful, hateful bitch

She’s a soul-sucking hurricane of negativity

Feasting on my thoughts

My soul

My relationships

Everything that is dear to me.

 

There’s a monster inside my head.

I hate her.

But I can never rid myself of her.

 
Because the monster inside my head is me.

Sunwashed

Today, I am the sunrise.

The reliable, slow brightening of the morning sky.

The break in the darkest of night.

 

Today, I am the constant motion of the heavens around Earth.

The quiet, accountable rotation that perpetuates exhausting darkness to renewing light.

I am the changing landscape of color that denotes a new day.

 

Today, I am the sunrise.

Steady.

Expected.

The signal of something new.

 

Today, I emerge from the fading light of the moon to become a child of the sun.

Today, I turn a new leaf.

I celebrate the sunshine.

The warmth and motion of the day.

 

Today, I am the sunrise.

Only temporary;

Before the darkness returns again.

The stains that won’t wash away

 

Today I’m left feeling like that ink pen that explodes in your apron.

Anyone who’s ever served tables knows what I’m talking about.

That rouge pen that migrated to the bottom of your apron pocket, only to explode;

And cover everything in your apron with thick, black ink.

Including your hands.

Your order pad.

Your money.

And everything else you need to do your job.

It doesn’t destroy, just complicates.

It doesn’t stop you from doing your job, just makes it harder.

 

Today, I am that pen that didn’t destroy; I just complicated things.

I am that pen that didn’t stop you from doing your job, I just made it harder.

I am those smeared, sticky black ink marks that won’t quite wash off your hands.

I am those ink marks that permeate through everything you need.

I am that ink that stains your work shirt permanently.

I cling to you.

The filthy, sloppy, sad reminder of the pen that betrayed you.

Today, I am that pen.