Seeds

One seed falls to the middle of his palm

he can taste the sweetness of apples

as he envisions many trees

gently swaying in a spring breeze

crisp dreamy air

beneath the lush green grass

lively roots that twist and turn

drinking the new rain

bathing in its clarity

the rich soil

cradles the roots

holding the life of the seed

 

he walks up

to the very top of the hill

and smiles as he notices

a green stem emerging from the ground

small and fragile

he thinks about the day he planted it

and what it started out as

just a tiny seed

in his large palm

 

after many seasons and flower blossoms

two years had passed

his plant begins to bear fruit

the fruit starts out as a shade of green

and then transitions

to an unexpected vibrant yellow

 

The man is struck with confusion

he contemplates the characteristics of apples

and the many different types

this is unlike anything he has ever seen

he takes a bite

quickly realizing that the skin is rather thick

he peels it

the inside more tart

than any apple he has tasted

 

he makes a pie of the fruit

it’s no good

it is very tart whichever way he prepares it

the juice is tart as well

he sweetens it

beginning to think about the size of the tree

considerably smaller than that of an apple tree

 

“Maybe this isn’t an apple,” he says

as he drinks the sweetened juice

refreshing

he tries three more glasses

forgetting about the apple orchard

he had often dreamed of

 

sometimes your sail casts you in a new direction

the discovery of the lemon

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Passion

It’s neat to look back at old poems before they were fully crafted into the final, flawless product. The handwriting is messy and there are things scribbled out all over the page. There are doodles from brainstorming sessions. The pages are ripped and crinkled and folded over. They are my thoughts in the most raw form. They are the art of a process.

Image

 

Control

I avoid sidewalk cracks to focus my attention elsewhere. I notice everything. The scattered dandelions spread across the large squares. Strands of grass peak through the cracks. Intricate designs lie where the concrete splits, and imperfect lines where the weeds do fit. No two squares are the same on this block.

If I look up you’ll glance in my direction, such a heavy exchange. Your eyes are filled with dense hope, such innocence, and such care. Do you notice the care I put into each graceful step. I’m so painfully aware. How do you ease into a matter such as this?

For the first time in my life I would welcome oblivion. It would be pure sweet bliss not to know what I know, a dandelion wish. Your smile is so lovely and unknowing. It is so pure and so sweet. It’s clear, you are still in this. I’ve been out for some time. For so long it faded, for no reason or rhyme.

 

My Name Is

Kristen

I am an English master’s graduate, a poet, lyricist, and thrill seeker. I enjoy reading, playing ultimate frisbee, going to theme parks, hosting bonfires, skydiving, bungee jumping, biking, and running in my spare time. I’m in love with writing. I mostly write poetry, and occasionally lyrics. It would be my dream to be able to make a living off of my writing, however impossible that may seem.

“It’s not because things are difficult that we dare not venture. It’s because we dare not venture that they are difficult”-Seneca

“The unexamined life is not worth living”- Socrates

 

*edited in 2018