Registered & Protected
i have heard my praises sung in screams

"what a beautiful child" cried the magpie.
- bambi, felix salten

#catbird goes to college

•kristina • 19 • vegan • artist • naturalist•
im not sure who i am anymore, perhaps writing my life and my thoughts down on the internet may help.

i want to believe

do u ever go to write like a 2 paragraph drabble and then suddenly, an entire freakin fanfic arises

thats what happened this morning. dont get me started on college mulder/scully, im all over that 


Dana shifted her bag from one shoulder to the other; it was getting heavy with all her physiology textbooks— who knew there was so much to learn about just the nervous system? 
She walked through the student union, its wide hallways almost emptied of the usual amounts of students rushing to class. It was early evening; everyone was either at the library or in the dining hall. For Dana, dinner would have to wait; she had only just finished up a lab session with her favourite professor and there was lots of reading to be done. It was extra practice to assure her grasp on the subject. “Always reaching for the stars, Dana!” he had exclaimed when she asked for additional readings. 

She was thinking about his comment when, suddenly, a tall, lanky boy rushed past her, carrying a mess of papers, books, and folders. One of his shoes was untied but he was in such a hurry he didn’t seem to notice.

Dana was surprised by this sudden appearance, given the otherwise quiet hallway. She wondered where he was headed to. As the boy turned the corner, she saw him crash to the floor—he’d stepped on his shoelace. 

She ran around the corner, expecting to see him surrounded by papers and open folders, but to her astonishment the hallway was clear. She looked up, confused—and spotted a door at the end of the dimly-lit hallway just as it shut.  Perhaps he had gone into that room?

She walked slowly down the hallway, slightly uneasy in the flickering yellow light. As she reached the door she cautiously peered through the window, not knowing what to expect.

The boy was indeed in there, and so were a number of other students—most with glasses, messy hair, and plenty of books of their own. The boy from the hallway was at the front of the room, hanging up charts alongside a large map. Another student was fiddling with the slide projector, centering a photograph of a treeline on the glass.

It seemed to be a meeting of sorts, but for what purpose? Dana knew of various science clubs on campus, but none like this. Secluded in a dark side-hallway of the union, at a late hour, full of strange looking students… what on earth was this?

As she was racking her brain to put all the pieces together, the boy from the hallway, finished with hanging up the charts, moved to the projected image and began excitedly pointing at what looked to be a dark smudge above one of the trees. In the light from the projector, Dana saw his face clearly for the first time— his eyes were bright, framed by oversized glasses that rested on a large nose. His brown hair was unkempt (although, Dana noticed, in an endearing sort of way). He was wearing a button-up formal shirt with an untied tie, and, Dana noticed, his shoe was still untied. She smiled to herself at this.

As she watched him enthusiastically pace in front of the room, gesturing wildly to the photo on the projector, she realized that the image wasn’t just of trees—the dark smudge he was focusing on was an object of some kind. She leaned against the door, trying to hear what he was saying.

“Look, this photo was taken just six years ago, and it’s been run through all sorts of computer tests. It’s real, guys, it’s genuine!!  This has got to be the clearest photo yet, the government won’t be able to hide anything much longer!”

Dana furrowed her brow—what on earth was he talking about? Suddenly she didn’t think this was a science club anymore.

Normally, she would’ve turned and left at this point, but there was something about the boy’s excitement that made her stick around. She watched the meeting in its entirety, as various other bespectacled boys, and a few girls, took their turns presenting information to the group. Occasionally they referred to the maps and charts, sometimes they changed the image on the projector. It was curious business, and Dana wanted to know more—but when the meeting was over and everyone began packing up to leave, she quickly hurried to an unlit spot further down the hallway, not wanting to be seen.

 The door opened and the students began filing out, still muttering eagerly to one another while stuffing papers into overflowing folders. She waited for the boy from the hallway to walk through the door, but even after all the rest of the group had left, he hadn’t appeared.

Slowly, she emerged from her shadowy hiding spot and approached the half-open door. She slowly opened it and there he was, bent over some slides, thoughtfully chewing on a pen cap. Dana stood in the doorway, watching him. After a while he began taking down the charts and map, rolling them up and putting them in his bag. He jotted a note on one of the slides before sticking it carefully into a folder and slung his bag over his shoulder, ready to leave. As he looked up, he saw Dana for the first time.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be here, I—” 
“Hey hey hey, it’s okay!” the boy asked as he walked towards her. He was smiling, and Dana couldn’t help but notice how his already bright eyes glowed even more. 
“Are you interested in joining our ~little menagerie~? Every Tuesday night at 7!” he said, gesturing to the room as he asked.

Dana let out a huff of air through her nose in amusement and smiled, looking away. “No, no, I was just walking past…although what is that you do in here, exactly?” she looked up at him. He looked at her in silence for a while, trying to judge what her reaction would be to his answer. He leaned closer and said quietly, “UFOs.”

She raised an eyebrow and, with a laugh, said “UFOs...? Unidentified flying objects. As in ships from outer space?” She couldn’t believe it. 

The boy didn’t look surprised at her disbelief, but she saw his eyes flicker with disappointment. He scratched the back of his neck and said, “Well, yeah! I mean the government is trying to cover it all up, of course, and we’re seeing past their lies; we’re trying to uncover the truth and show people what’s really going on. We’re getting so close!” he said, knowing how ridiculous she thought it sounded, but determined to impress her. 

Dana narrowed her eyes and shook her head slightly, although not taking her eyes off of his. She obviously thought he was strange, but there was something in his passion for the subject that made him interesting, despite his wild claims.

The boy was silent for a moment, then reached out and, to her surprise, touched Dana’s shoulder. “The truth is out there. It’s waiting to be discovered, and I’m determined to find it.”

He patted her shoulder while smiling at her before walking gently past her and out into the hallway. She turned around and watched him leave, his tall, thin figure disappearing steadily down the hall. She took a couple steps forward, stuck between letting him go and wanting to ask him more questions; as she did so, she noticed a slide on the tiled floor. She reached down and picked it up; she held it against the dim light. It was the image of the treeline with the object—the UFO—in the sky. Near the bottom was a note in fresh ink.

I want to believe.

Dana smiled to herself and put the slide in her bag, tucked carefully inside a textbook. She knew where she would be next Tuesday night.

the demon that steals the light: an essay on the experience of depression 

Depression is a most insufferable of afflictions, the most disastrous of maladies. It is the manifestation of the burning core of human suffering present our species, bringing to the surface the inevitable doom that a human existence breeds. It is depression’s bastardization of this often suppressed uncertainty into an imperial agony that makes it so potent. Truly a wolf in the wooliest of sheep’s clothing, the disease is a bitter friend, an abusive lover, a rainbow made only of shades of grey. It is an ever present comfort even as it tears at the skin, caressing the soul with needles and knives. In depression, one comes to seek this terrible companionship, almost as one would yearn for the tender warmth of a more traditional partner. Depression in all its violence creates such a storm in one’s mind that only the evil that wrought such chaos can be a suitable confidant. It makes one feel so tremendously isolated, so desperately worthless, that one feels undeserving of anyone less cruel than depression herself.

Depression transforms oxygen into mud, thickening the air and making difficult the acts of breathing and moving. If one with depression is lucky enough to get out of their house, the outside world seems incredibly too bright. Everyone looks far too happy, or at least not sad enough. Time slows down while everyone else seems to be moving at lightning pace; a minute for the nondepressed seems an hour for the depressed. As time ticks by ever so slowly, one drags their body around like a heavy burden, weighed down by the growing enormity of their grief.

Depression is a disease of the mind; it builds high walls around it and one has no choice but to sit in squalor at the mercy of the hurricane of emptiness inside their head.  It cuts a hole in the heart and soul, and one can only watch sorrowfully, helplessly, as everything but the sadness washes down, down, and into some dark ocean far off and out of sight. Depression empties one completely until the only thing left to cling to—however much it hurts to do so—is the depression itself.

“i feel unspeakably lonely. and i feel - drained. it is a blank state of mind and soul i cannot describe to you as i think it would not make any difference. also it is a very private feeling i have - that of melting into a perpetual nervous breakdown. i am often questioning myself what i further want to do, who i further wish to be; which parts of me, exactly, are still functioning properly. no answers, darling. at all.” -Anne Sexton

One feels sorrowful for the loss of this sadness when, once in a blue moon, a day comes where the brightness is not as blinding, the emptiness is not as cavernous, the air is not as mired.  Addicted to the comfortable nullity, the familiar ache, one becomes quickly anxious for its return when on those rare occasions it fades for a while. Depression, in this way, is so subtly dangerous, attaching comfort to coldness and a sense of home to desolation. It builds a home for itself even as it tears its host apart.

“Depression was something that was braided so deep into us that there was no separating it from our character and personality.” –Andrew Solomon 

Depression becomes an identity. It indeed is so closely entwined with the mind, heart, and soul that there is no way to dislodge it without ripping apart the very essence of oneself.  Thus, it is difficult and nearly impossible to imagine life without depression, to be without depression. The before, the after, they might as well not exist; they are ghosts of a present full of demons. Haunted day and night by a silent assassin, life with depression is not life at all, but a conscious version of death. Dulled are ones senses, drained is ones capacity to feel anything beyond utter despair, and debilitated are ones movements. Stripped away are ones passions, darkened are ones thoughts, and vanished are all hopes.  The greyscale world seen through the lens of depression is one where the prospect of happiness, or even neutrality, not only goes to perish, but to be subjected to torment for which it seems there will be no end. 

 There is no singular experience of depression, and yet it is never gentle. It is never kind. It never allows those in its grasp to see their worth, to believe in their strength, to ponder a possible end to its torture. And yet, despite the suffocating hold that it has on its sufferers, there are so many who have fought this terrible disease, who have found meaning in their suffering. It is not an unconquerable affliction, but it is not easily overpowered. And, once one has seemingly vanquished this dark devil, there is always the threat of its return. Without warning, it can steal you away once again, perhaps even more violent than before. But— and this is the greatest weakness of depression— there is always light, and those who have been devoid of it for long enough will be the best at seeking it out. 

Depression can seem like an endless road, but it must be remembered that all devils were once angels, all sinners once untainted— that there is light even in the most hellish of places.

Forge meaning. Build identity. Forge meaning. Build identity. And then invite the world to share your joy.

Andrew Solomon: How the worst moments in our lives make us who we are

i’m about to cry. this man has done more for me than practically anyone i’ve never met. 

if you want to see the purest of humanity, the greatest of conquering of sufferings, the most eloquent of storytelling, you must watch andrew solomon speak. he is an individual with so much worth and so much to share, fiercely intelligent and terrifically strong despite his hardships. 

I tend to find the ecstasy hidden in ordinary joys, because I did not expect those joys to be ordinary to me.”

I first was introduced to Andrew Solomon when I watched his TED talk on depression (which has since become a powerful inspiration and a much-returnted-to thing in my life). I have identified with his every word on the subject so strongly, and today, I found out that I share even more with him— our experiences as queer people in quite a heteronormative world. 

He is a gay man, married happily with children. He blends this fact as well as the experiences of reaching his sexual identity and what it has given him into this talk, which has an overarching theme of finding the joy in the sorrow, the light in the darkness, the unexpected positives in a lifetime of suffering. 

We don’t seek the painful experiences that hew our identities, but we seek our identities in the wake of painful experiences. We cannot bear a pointless torment, but we can endure great pain if we believe that it’s purposeful. Ease makes less of an impression on us than struggle. We could have been ourselves without our delights, but not without the misfortunes that drive our search for meaning. "Therefore, I take pleasure in infirmities," St. Paul wrote in Second Corinthians, "for when I am weak, then I am strong.""

this talk is life changing; it breathes life into the listener, and with Andrew’s careful cadence he poetically proves that in every storm there is indeed the promise of a rainbow; that in every dark year there is a gift perhaps not to be realized until happier times, but that those happier times— and the gift hidden by suffering—  are sure to come.

I would have had an easier life if I were straight, but I would not be me, and I now like being myself betterthan the idea of being someone else, someone who, to be honest, I have neither the option of being nor the ability fully to imagine. But if you banish the dragons, you banish the heroes.”

back from Sprog. (‘What is Sprog?’ it’s a week long gathering of environmental activists learning how to organize while making connections unlike ever before)  

I feel so opened. So free. Ready to take on the world! I went into Sprog a week ago feeling defeated, by people online and off. Daily life had become such an intense struggle, and I felt so very alone. I knew I was part of a huge community fighting for justice,  but energetically I felt so isolated. I felt disconnected from that community, and so I felt like I had nowhere to turn but to my own sorrows. 

Sprog has changed that. It has given me a sense of rejuvenation, showing me that I am so, so, so not alone in this fight. The most beautiful people have blessed my life and soul over the past week, and feel so honoured to have blessed theirs. Sharing stories of heartache, of struggles, of life and death, the safe space we created for each other became a graveyard to bury old demons and a fierce green fire from which a hundred bright phoenixes rose from their ashes. 

Under the stars and over great food, we learned what humans are capable of. Faith in humanity is often such a faraway thing, one you must squint to see. But at Sprog, it blazes in the eyes of everyone, sparks jumping from one being to another. The yearning for peace and the motivation to seek it was evident in every soul in that space. Giving up is not an option, not anymore. 

People who had never felt what it was to be truly loved, entirely accepted, and free to be who they are in their soul, found this all and more at Sprog. It was touching and wildly beautiful to see people’s eyes and faces lighting up with the glow of being loved. Identities were accepted, discovered, and validated. The complete liberty to express every part of one’s identity is so rare in our society. 

I have never felt so comfortable and open with a group of people. I had multiple people tell me that my openness on the first day set the tone of the space, shaping it as the safe and liberating space it was to become. I am humbled and honoured to have been a catalyst for the space, for it helped me and everyone at Sprog to own who they are. 

As our no-talent show turned into a night-long dance party, I felt myself letting go. As my hands reached above my head, as my bare feet pounded the dirty floor, as my hair flowed wildly around my face, something shifted in my soul. I became aware of what it is to be. To be alive. To be a part of something, to be truly connected with a group of human beings. I lost myself to the moment and to the music, but when I reeled myself back in, I saw that a piece of me had been added. In losing myself, I found so much of myself. A part of my soul previously untouched had been sparked into life, and now it was beating in time with the rest of my being. 

Looking around at the dancing bodies around me, jumping to the same beat but in so many different ways, I felt as if the night had opened up and all the brilliant colours of supernovae had flooded the room. If the definition of Life has ever taken a physical form, it was this circle of humans, letting go and not being afraid to be unabashedly, uninhibitedly themselves.

one dog town


chicago is a setter, rough and tumble when need be;
elegant and tall at cocktail parties
with long fur flowing in the windy city’s breeze.

new york is a shepherd, fast and unrivaled
yet well groomed and eye catching for soho;
that big city glint in their eye bright as times square.

d.c. is a mutt, almost purebred with a hint of street dog, 
carrying their tail high but on awkward too-long legs.
easily distracted, they lift their leg in the white house garden. 

you can travel the country from dog to dog
but none rival the tail wagging when you get home
after long journeys,
sleepless flights,
nervous taxi rides, 
cheap hotels.

no city outshines the small town,
the world within your dog
as he beholds his weary traveler.

sniffing the scent of dogs you have met—
illinois smells of busses and breeze,
new york of exhaust and fast food, 
virginia of salt and sunscreen—
he decodes your path.

in the end,
it doesn’t matter where you go
as long as you return to long walks,
crinkling treat bags,
slobbery summer days,
and a pillow to share at night.

for however far you roam
you always come home to your one dog town.

// deerflies //

a certain sense of apprehension
head shakes and constant twitches
she is a deer covered in flies

plagued by small devils carrying disease—

don’t let them bite.

she can see the horizon thick with dust
she knows she must soon begin to run
cloven hooves spreading sand, sifting soil,
spades trying to save a dead garden in frost.  

no antlers on her head, she can’t fight with force
she must use her ears, her eyes, her heart
while she runs, it beats with nervous purpose

and pumps her poison 

the flies, they feed on this rotten juice
drinking through sharp straws
draining her slowly of the dark and heavy slurry
of sleepless nights and haunted daylight

she weakens, falters, misses a step;
heading towards the last sliver of sun,
she falls.

the flies find her.

she is coated in her fears
swarmed by her sadness

they climb in her nose
she chokes on her demons

they have taken everything
and now they steal what’s left.

when you stop seeing yourself as an angel, you find that you were the most terrible devil all along. 

the guy giving the guest lecture for my animal bio class has a really calming nice voice i wish he could teach all the classes i love his voice

some of my newer poems  

we could be heading to the city with wind in our hair,
blasting the summer radio as we race over the river,
singing and laughing and holding hands so shyly. 
pulling up to the museums, looking at the monuments
passing the busy traffic and tourist lines.
find a low-lit corner of the museum to sit,
next to each other with heads leaning against the other’s.
watching the people go by, staring at the unmoving animals.
the lion snarls at them, the antelope stare into an invisible distance.
we look up, and see the leopard up high, with her kill in the tree.
she is ready to pounce, to take an unsuspecting visitor by surprise.
it is in that moment that you gently turn my head to you
and you look into me like a leopard who has been waiting too long.
but you are more gentle, kind, soft than she. 
instead of a kill, you go in for a kiss. 
in the museum full of stories, we write our own. 


and in these stars, your light will shine.
close to the sky on the peak of the snowy capped sentinel,
we sit, and we feel—
each other’s hearts, each other’s hands, each other’s being.
underneath those stars, at the top of the world,
we feel what it means to love.


the moon pulls on the sea
like you pull on my heart
and you come and go in waves
in tides and mighty bursts
cooling my feet, washing my fear,
and drowning me all the same.
you are the ocean and the moon,
you are the comings and goings,
you are light and you are power,
and most of all, you are mystery.
you are love.


i’ll give you my camera—
develop the film,
hang it up,
stare at it against your blank white walls.
as the dust hovers gently in the morning sun,
you see.
the photos i take,
they’re all of you. 

the assignment was ‘beauty’
and i see nothing but you.


with sleep, nature has given us rest.
with sleep, nature has given me a chance
to rest my head on your shoulder, 
touch your hair with gentle fingertips,
braid fresh picked daisies where my fingers just left, 
feel sand underneath my toes and know that your own skin feels it too, breathe the silent summer air and taste you in the rain, 
feel the beating of your heart while i wrap my arms around you, 
touch ancient bark with one hand and hold your palm in the other, 
look out at the sea and have the wind hit our faces,
stare at you with stars in my eyes as the real ones shine above,
sweetly, timidly, tenderly, kiss you under those stars on mountain peaks.

with sleep, nature has given me dreams.
with sleep, nature has given me you.


i am so in love with words that if i give you mine, they are my heart stamped in neat black ink across the page. 

a sweet song and a small smile, i gift them to you inside rhymes. memories of the times i wanted to die, pain so great i wanted to rip my chest open and spill myself out on the table, i plant them in your heart with small phrases so that you may love every part of me.

every apple i’ve bitten, all the sweet juice running down my fingers, it’s in lyrics and in silent tunes. my comets and my stars, one falling into the other, no stopping its path, only slowing— they’re singed into the paper, ash dusting their places like ants on a summer sidewalk.

i am a poet, and my heart lives in my words. you have my words, you have my heart.


there is nothing in me left
but sensors in my eyes
sensitive to you
and all your blinding light

my hands are numb
my mind is dark
my body’s silent
just like my heart

i fade and  then appear
in sorrow and in pain
i look at you and wonder when
these tears will turn to rain


orion is not fighting the bull.

he is fighting me.
aldeberon is my heart
and orion’s bow will pierce it.
it will bleed like a nebula through the sky,
dripping into stars. 

my love will spill 
among the darkness 
and i know i won’t get it back.

so lay down your weapon
and please look at me gently.


i saw you tonight,
in the sky. 
i blew a kiss to the big dipper
and smiled at the moon. 
you saw me too—
and, across the miles, you smiled back.
you may not know it, 
but you did.
i felt it—
and in the cold, i felt a flame.


this should be the place where we sit under the stars
whispering to the breeze and the beating of our hearts
to a golden dawn we sing as the bats return to night
we curl up and sleep while touched by the light

the satellite is you, orbiting the earth
the planet, home, the hearth
where you find a joyful rest
and watch until your fears have left.

that is me, so far below, the planet kind and vast
filled with people loving you in future and in past
my oceans and my streams fill with turquoise tears
my mountains and my deserts reach to you through years

hurricanes and raging seas will never stop my core
from burning hot and bright for you, 
my fuel, my heat, my ore. 

so, dear satellite, come back from where you came
for you know, deep within, you hold a spark and flame.


come lay in the cracks in my heart
they are soft, quiet, safe 
I am broken but my scars
are warmer than my flesh
and you can sit in them for the night

for as long as you’d like
you may take refuge in my heart
amid the cold beating,there is warmth

you are scared and you look to the windows— 
you want to run. 
I tell you, stay; stay with me in my brokenness, 
and you will find that you will heal. 
cotton lines my scars, blankets and pillows too— 
come into me, and be treated well.

I will not clip your wings,
I will let you fly, 
but you’ll soon find you don’t want to go far.

your nervous wings will lead you home,
and darling, you’re safe with me.

of course my hands are shaking as i type this, but it’s not all anxiety— part of my nervous energy is excitement, to finally be able to be fully, completely open about myself. 
i am gay with the ability to be biromantic, and i am asexual towards males and demisexual towards females. (basically, i prefer girls.)
i’m not sure if anyone could tell, i haven’t been ‘hiding’ it per se, but i just haven’t found a way to properly come out to everyone until now. i have had plenty of opportunities with family and friends, but my anxiety got the better of me.
i am PROUD of who i am. it has taken many years, layers of heartache, and too many sleepless nights to count. but i’ve finally arrived at a place within myself that i’m comfortable with, and i don’t want to keep this important part of myself from all of my friends and family.
hopefully i can be a strong and friendly advocate for the LGBTQIA+ community, and show that we’re just like everyone else, just varying in our romantic/sexual attractions.
please respect that this is both relieving and difficult for me, and a reminder: sexuality and romantic attraction is FLUID, and the labels i have presented myself under have changed and probably will change in the future. but i’m sharing what i feel are the best descriptions of me currently, so i hope you will accept them but know that it’s been a hell of a journey simply narrowing it down to this.
thank you <3

of course my hands are shaking as i type this, but it’s not all anxiety— part of my nervous energy is excitement, to finally be able to be fully, completely open about myself. 

i am gay with the ability to be biromantic, and i am asexual towards males and demisexual towards females. (basically, i prefer girls.)

i’m not sure if anyone could tell, i haven’t been ‘hiding’ it per se, but i just haven’t found a way to properly come out to everyone until now. i have had plenty of opportunities with family and friends, but my anxiety got the better of me.

i am PROUD of who i am. it has taken many years, layers of heartache, and too many sleepless nights to count. but i’ve finally arrived at a place within myself that i’m comfortable with, and i don’t want to keep this important part of myself from all of my friends and family.

hopefully i can be a strong and friendly advocate for the LGBTQIA+ community, and show that we’re just like everyone else, just varying in our romantic/sexual attractions.

please respect that this is both relieving and difficult for me, and a reminder: sexuality and romantic attraction is FLUID, and the labels i have presented myself under have changed and probably will change in the future. but i’m sharing what i feel are the best descriptions of me currently, so i hope you will accept them but know that it’s been a hell of a journey simply narrowing it down to this.

thank you <3

new poems 

are u ready for love poems from the heart …. .. idk they just come easily, i just get a word in my head and these poems fall out

as the stars fade away, 
you still shimmer.
i am still looking to you
while the foxes go to their dens.

as the owls come out to hunt,
you still glow.
the moths come to you,
thinking you are the moon.

as the wolves head out to howl,
you still burn.
your flames lick the sky,
turning clouds into smoke.

as the stars fade away,
that is when you shine.


there was never a time
when i didn’t know you
it’s just there were so many times
i hadn’t met you.


like the heron’s feet stir the silt,
you shift the floor of my heart
you kick up dust and
light fires when you walk.

if the sun were to swallow us,
you’d still shine
burning even in night.

at the end of the world,
you will be my light
and we will walk the earth
until it falls.


the heart, drumming
the hands, shaking
the mind, racing:

the daily routine 
of someone watching
their star shining
even in day.


science tells us we’re nothing more than dust.
i agree — but you, you aren’t dust, you’re glitter, 
larger than us all, brighter and more brilliant,
falling through the morning sun 
like a star around a galaxy —
spiraling beautifully 
among the stardust.


there aren’t enough stars
for me to
name them 

14.5 billion years
and yet
the universe is still

you cannot be contained,
there is too much light in you.

i won’t count the stars—
there will never be enough.


on our wings made of horse feathers, darling, we’ll soar
over the lakes and the fields of hay
i’ll keep flying higher ; falling further for you
if time and the wind should stop in a day


give me your hand 

        and i will hold it kindly

give me your heart

        and i will love it dearly

the two of us, broken wanderers,

    carrying each other’s hearts

    with our own trembling hands

we will carry them to the mountains

wash them in the streams

dry them in the winds

and mend them in each other

on top of the world

where nothing can touch us

but light


and each other 

darwin’s timekeepers

over moons 

over mountains

over oceans

over time

the birds pick and scratch

fossils lay behind them in the brush

dusty footprints with tiny claws
seeds scattered in a rush

travellers on century winds;

short wings, long journey.

without end, never tiring

stretching on across the years

piercing flowers

breaking twigs

finding seeds

gathering grass

forever and a day, the finches do their work

blind to the bones allowing them to live

cataracts clouding what time has yet to give

the albatross soars silent over

the waves

the wind

the spray

the seals leaping in the surf

no stopping to this endless day

the finches in their sun

sit bright, a lively cast

illuminating change

while burning up their past

the islands blaze

the waves rage

the seabirds dance

finches advance 

they fall into the lower bowl
themselves the sands of time 
perhaps the clock will never fill
perhaps they’ll never die

like the years — and centuries strong,
slow and steady — time goes on.
always forwards,
never back.

never back.

never back.

new poems  

idk man i was in a mood to rhyme two lines at a time

the wild horses running with dust in their manes
the blue light of night blankets the plains
the pounding of hooves, the rush of the wind
the herd moves as one, freedom within
their hearts and their souls, as well as their eyes
which shine with the moon as it sits in the sky


by day the bright sun burns our skin
it sears our hearts before we begin
at night the moon will heal our pain
and lets us love until the day


these celestial dragons, their wings made of stars
fly through their nighttime like we run through ours
the starlit serpents we see are of flesh
their scales shine bright but they are unlike the rest
of the bright fliers gliding through galaxy winds
as they look back at us, their terrestrial friends 


the sharp scent of pine wafts into the room
it tickles our noses like a soft breeze in june
our bedsheets are wrapped round our legs and our chests
as we lie there together, two birds in their nest
your long golden hair glows like the sun 
illuminated softly, so beautifully undone 
you pull me closer as the breeze moves the blinds
kissing my forehead, you smell sweetly of pine
warm and content we kiss as the birds
sing sweetly to us as we love without words.


the swirling of stars, the billowing nebulas
the gases and elements and all of their formulas
the suns and their lineups of planets and moons
through this the blue box spins, hurtles, zooms
in it a man as old as a comet,
with a trail behind him just as long and atomic
his life spread across the galaxies shining
his path a web that now is unwinding
as gold dust shimmers across his palms and his nose
his new life begins, where to— no one knows. 


the mockingbird bride found a lace hairpiece drowning
on the edge of a lake by the old campground housing
she plucked it to safety in the clasp of her claws
and flew away swiftly over cabins and lawns
reaching her nest she set down the treasure
to make sure her mate would see it with pleasure 
he came home that night, belly full of berries
and, seeing her gift, his heart flew with fairies. 

as i sit at the end of the world, counting the pebbles, the waves, the buildings, my heartbeats, i feel nothing. i am silent and still as the empty earth is. as i drop the pebbles onto a pile, they don’t clatter as they roll down the sides. when i am at the beach, the waves do not crash. when the buildings fall, they kick up dust but i can’t hear a thing. when i listen to my heart, it’s screaming but it’s behind so much glass, so many scars, that it’s only a whisper. the only voice left in the wasteland. i choose to ignore it, and continue in silence. words would be too much. if i let myself hear, i would let myself feel, and at the end of the world what other feelings are left other than heartache and sadness and fear. i’ve felt those enough, why should i let them find me again.

i sit and add another pebble to my pile.

i count another wave.

i watch another fall.

i feel another crack.

everything falls apart. everything ends. everything dies. everything fades. nothing remains. i feel like im at the end of the world and all i have left are memories of when the earth was new. i sit amid the rubble, counting pebbles. i sit by the coast, counting down until the tsunamis. i sit on the hill and count how many buildings fall. i sit in my heart, counting how many more breaks it can take.

answer: not enough.