A Tragic Tale

you became a tragic tale of lost love and deep regret
you spent a summer next to the sea, swapping secrets
with sirens, moonrise caresses you and your salty skin

what heaven have you ever been? you were once a bell jar
you were once a step in quicksand, space between your lungs
has begun to feel more like a cemetery, a broke down palace

you have collected sea glass and cracked shells, you’ve
eaten slices of fuji apples and wished you were
the silver lining instead of the overcast sky

you begin to fade into sultry summer sunsets
you wonder what you taste like, as a regret
you’ve surrounded yourself with turtle grass

 moonrise caresses you and your salty skin, you begin to
fall in love with the secrets you’ve swapped with sirens
you became a tragic tale of lost love and deep regret

but that’s just one man’s opinion

Self-Doubt Containment Jar: for sale

this may not look like much, but it’s all i have to offer you (right now); place every self-doubt you’ve ever had inside and throw it out to sea. they’ll most like be found by slick tongued sirens or birds in search of shimmery treasures for far off nests, you can let them go; believe in something, start with yourself. With all my love, Sarah

Hostile Indians: A Version of Truth


some people still cry, “Hostile Indians”,
just like they scream, “Go Redskins!”
a safe place to say this seems to be in a classroom
or on a football field, far away from reservations;
this isn’t a poem for you, it’s a reminder for me.
this is what you constructed us to be,
what you wanted me to see,

generations of pushing genocide against my cheekbones
sink their teeth into bronzed skin, full lips, heavy breasts
working their worry lines to destroy the indigenous
worlds apart, pushed us past hostile, boundaries blurred
as he said, “Put that in your peace pipe, and smoke it”,
choking on ashes from burnt treaties, wombs that’ve
carried more than your sterilization plans,

and this is how they make natives restless
this is what you constructed us to be, what you wanted me to see,
the self-entitled states of america’s infinite pursuit of duty
masterminding martyrs, pedestals for people of color
founded in his story as history, homicidal tendencies,
behind badges, under church steeples, our people bleed
this is what i had to see, what you constructed us to be

an exhausting love for our land, this is taxing,
we’re not being complacent, we’re sewing the heartbroken
mending the mother, still cannot bring ourselves to trust
your extended hand, at the expense of our continued
murders, hushed on and off allotments, a reserved plan
centuries in the making, perpetuating race, hand over fist
constructing your perfected image of “Hostile Indians”…

yeah, i have an opinion about the name “Redskins”,
put your misappropriation in your peace pipe,
and smoke it.

Just a Poem: Her

she crocheted tiny decaying animal skeletons
from single strands of light
that fell from an overcast sky
colossal, define this past time

she became the moment the lightning touched
sandy shore, there was nothing wicked about want,
but the results can be devastating, just ask
the forests of fulgurites that have scattered the sea

this summer she became
a sara teasdale poem; caressing soft sandy dunes,
lone walks up the beach, mostly searching
for sharks baby teeth


Little Tree, Big Love Pt. 2

preys on own emotions, sorts and sifts
avoids human touch, because this is what happens
when you attempt to live outside of the deep wooded love
this is what you become, the great nothing
the mistake you were not, you try to move closer to
try to fall for the nemophilist in you

ethereal, the otherworldly parts of you
golden light filters through, hands like limbs, reaches for
midmorning dew covered light beams, silently speaks
here we’re the subject not an object
creates this way to survive, splinters pieces like birch bark
digs deeper into the earth, nails infested with mountains of dirt

jesus fuck, you’re not the one for this;
uses the backside of stones to write notes
on how to survive being haunted by the living,
this is beyond a craving; crafts lust for forest thickets
can’t be sold on scenery alone, so what was underneath?
what brought you to man’s knees?

what need do we have for these bodies
reconstructs herself as, builds something new;
this tree has deep roots, this tree has no womb
bears no fruit, gifts herself back to earth and dirt,
makes room for a neat little row of tiny red birds,
rests quietly on the gentle curvature of her clavicle

her roots are deeper and darker than other trees;
but sometimes she tastes like rain, other times
thunder and lightning, always moves like storm clouds, maybe
she’s more than woman, maybe this is the measure of
being close to everything, or maybe she was just nothing

poor little nemophilist, just go home


while i was sitting on my brother’s back deck, deep in my morning writing, my brother’s little old neighbor reached over the tiptop of his privacy fence and offered fresh grapes from the vines that grow between their properties. we spoke through the fence before she made me try them; bitter but juicy with tart little seeds. was nice to be brought back to reality. moments later she returned with flowers. sometimes i get lost in what i’m working on, life never fails to provide moments to reconnect. happy weekend to you all, be blessed. be a gift to others and share moments, that’s how we exist, through these brief encounters with one another. 

Dead Alive Things

looking through pages of a book that doesn’t exist
under apple trees, bats with clipped wings fluttered
above, humming guided them down to our laps;
we painted metaphorical pictures,
wove words with our wicked tongues

we shed light in dark places, never closed doors,
just crafted closure you’d never intended to live out (with me)
allowed the monsters no one was scared of to tuck us in
so much messy, mounted fresh kills to our walls and watched
other two-legged animals shiver as they walked down our halls

meticulous in our actions, grew fond of placing
internal organs in jars, and this is why we drink, mostly
ambrosia; because there is nothing to reminisce over,
being around death all day just isn’t enough
to make me feel alive, so we curate, craft, create

brush strokes, when we spoke, something gallery worthy
something aesthetically pleasing, with the help of pretentiousness
no good doers come this way and they find newish words for us to say;
obscure sorrows, counted under apple trees, shrinking fear in the middle of
otherworldly mess, whispered words to tuck historical traumas in

(adj.) describing an experience that makes you fearful yet fascinated,
awed yet attracted-the powerful, personal feeling
of being overwhelmed and inspired

and each of these is a religious experience, scribbled writing on walls
that do not exist, so we’ve created pretend places to speak,
read pages in books that haven’t been written yet, sipped ambrosia
under apple trees and hummed songs to bats with clipped wings

we do what we can to manage the pain
of having doors slammed in our face,
and this is the art of being a decent human being.