poetry

When the World Was Ours

~ GennaClaire ~ 1 Comment

When the world was ours,

I searched the creek in my backyard for arrowheads…

Patches of clover on the playground for luck in four leaves…

And a fortune-telling eight ball for answers to all my questions.

△REPLY HAZY TRY AGAIN△

When the world was ours,

I made bookmarks from pressed flowers between clear sticky film…

A clubhouse from a painted cardboard box for a new refrigerator…

Feature films with flashlights and cardboard paper on the stairwell to the basement.

Not caught on camera. Just consumed by an audience of parents and siblings.

When the world was ours,

There was no greater anticipation than waiting on a roll of photos to develop at CVS…

No better way to spend your allowance than a little league concession stand…

No longer 10 minutes than adult swim in the neighborhood pool…

(Unless you had a Drumstick or Freeze Pop to keep you company.)

Now, when so much of our day’s energy is consumed into datapoints, it’s hard to describe,

The joy of a milky pastel colored gel pen…

A Lisa Frank trapper keeper…

A Jansport bookbag (*pre-bulletproof edition*)…

A sheet of puffy holographic stickers…

And a freshly hand-sharpened #2 pencil.

Now, when AI finishes our sentences before we even ask, it’s hard to explain,

The thrill of passing notes in class…

Back and forth until every inch of an 8.5” x 11” page sheet was covered—

With doodles and confessions and check yes or no’s.

Bonds of friendship etched in our own handwriting,

Belonging to no one but ourselves.

Now, when we watch a screen in front of another screen giving neither our full attention, it’s hard to remember,

That computers were for dying of dysentery on the Oregon Trail…

And televisions were for Saturday morning cartoons…

Phones had spiral cords that held us hostage to kitchen walls…

And we called into radio stations to request our favorite songs.

At slumber parties, we were witches.

In the pool, mermaids.

In the backyard, geologists.

On the trampoline, popstars.

And anywhere near a box of crayons, we were goddamn Frida Kahlo.

I fear we’re the last generation who got to experience the way it felt:

Looking up answers to questions we didn’t know in the basement encyclopedia set…

Or calling our grandparents who might know…

Or visiting the local library and taking out a book to learn…

Or sitting with the important discomfort of simply not knowing for a while.

I wonder how it shapes someone,

To inspect every photo as soon as it’s taken.

To have the recording of a concert being part of your view.

To have numbingly unlimited access to everything, everywhere, all the time.

To not know what it’s like to have to choose…

Just one movie to rent from Blockbuster Video.

I miss fireflies.

And pen pals.

And sales catalogs.

And studying the games on the back of the cereal box

For the one hundredth time 

While I eat my Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

I know…I know that world was far from perfect.

But we existed in it in a way that no longer exists.

In a way that felt like it belonged to us and us to it.

So if I still had a Magic 8 Ball today, 

and I asked if we were the luckiest,

And I’m pretty sure the answer would be 

△SIGNS POINT TO YES△

Ten Years of Snow

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

A decade feels heavy.

But not heavy like an impact, a crash, a totality.

Heavy like accumulation. Like snowfall.

Gradual and slow.

Each flake a moment I’ve lived without you. 

A memory that was supposed to be. 

Now frozen in time. Now a blizzard with no end.

I’m covered by the weight of all that never was.

Surrounded by you and the stinging absence of you. 

So cold I might as well be numb. 

(Maybe, I’m just numb.)

10 years feels endless. 

Like a spring that won’t break. 

And flowers that won’t bloom. 

No irises or tulips. No jonquils daring to poke through.

Grief is a winter I was never prepared for. 

Because I spent my life basking in the sunbeam of your love.

The Love that Built This House

~ GennaClaire ~ 1 Comment

When I wear white,

there will be no church or chapel.

Just the sanctuary we created—

a simple plot of fertile ground

where a sacred love could grow.

At the end of the aisle, we’ll plant our feet.

Hearts beating like two hummingbirds,

captured in cages of bone.

There we’ll test the limits of human joy—

pledging words that no one else has said.

Because we wrote them.

Together.

As we invite others in to join

the unending celebration

that began when we first met,

my heart will be as full as the moon overhead.

Standing beneath oaks that have lasted for centuries

and hoping—always hoping—

for a love that lasts just as long.

File Oct 13, 3 41 54 PM

Hush, Hush: A White Lives Lullaby

~ GennaClaire ~ 1 Comment

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word.

Just ignore the news you heard.

All those shootings, all the dead—

Need not upset your little head.

Don’t you fret about traffic stops.

You’re no threat to any cop.

When the blue men draw their guns,

You’ll be fine, my precious son.

And when the bullets pierce the night,

Just shut your eyes ‘til morning light.

Even when the riots break,

There’s no need for you to wake.

Ignore all inequality,

It’ll work out fine for you and me.

Your world is beautiful and bright.

As long as you have skin that’s white.

So hush, little baby, don’t you cry.

America cares if you live or die.

__

 

APTOPIX Million Man March Anniversary
 (AP Photo/Evan Vucci)

what can happen in an instant (a poem)

~ GennaClaire ~ 2 Comments

you catch my eye

a bird takes flight

a light flips on by switch

you steal my heart

a New Year starts

a gambling man gets rich

—

our lips meet

the cold retreats

a baby comes to be

we hold on tight

day shifts to night

a wave returns to sea

—

a keyboard clicks

a cuckoo ticks

your heart begins to wane

as lightning flares

a tightrope tears

and nothing is the same

—

a star falls

a car stalls

you turn your back on me

my throat clumps

a lost man jumps

and just like that, I’m free

 —

The first of (hopefully) many pieces inspired by 642 Things to Write About.

when christmas comes

~ GennaClaire ~ 4 Comments

IMAG1051

(Because some feelings will only be processed in writing)
__

I tell myself I’ll be just fine,

When Christmas comes to pass.

I’ll wear a smile above my scarf—

With mulled wine in my glass.

__

I’ll play the songs I love the most,

But there’s one I’ll dread to hear.

The one with words I know too well:

“It won’t be the same this year.”

__

I’ll wrap the presents up in bows,

String lights around the tree.

I’ll hang the stockings in a row,

Place the nativity.

__

But as the day looms closer still,

My thoughts will linger on.

It was 12/16 I got the call,

And in five days, you were gone.

__

My toenails, they were sparkly green

At your funeral last year.

I looked down with misplaced shame

At their burst of Christmas cheer.

__

Now coldness taps the windows.

Winter looms in sight.

And I’m not sure how I’ll manage

On this year’s Silent Night.

__

If you were here beside me—

Avoiding all that’s Mary and bright—

You’d whisper words like magic,

And make everything all right.

__

Since you’re gone, I’ll just imagine

Those words that set me free:

“When you celebrate the memories,

You still celebrate with me.”

the artist’s prayer

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment

"Muse of Creativity," a painting, poem, and prayer by my mom
“Muse of Creativity,”
a painting, poem, and prayer by my mom

–Muse of Creativity–

Come to this table filled

with brushes, paints and

water, a candle, a purple iris,

and most importantly,

Mother Mary. Come and

assist me in using my talents

to make beauty, to offer love,

to spread joy. Alone I cannot

create. With you, I am

emblazoned on the artistic path.

Never alone. Never afraid.

Always Brave. Thank you

for guiding me.

-KDS