Submissions by IntoTheRain
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
When it gets heavy, the pen feels so light. That’s why I write. If something is taking up space in my mind, on the paper it goes.
SELF POEM
Published
2nd Jan 2023 6:14am
2nd Jan 2023 6:14am
Silver
It wasn’t that long ago that she closed the door,
But not all the way.
Silver light shining in a horizontal line
Against her heart.
Just enough space
To let the real her
In.
On days where she needs to remember
The dreams that once anchored her.
Just enough space
To forget about the impossibility.
The inability to be the girl who wasn’t
Anxious. Doubtful.
Too afraid to get too close to the
Edge.
Running, youthful faced with an open soul
Into the future.
I, once was her.
What’s left? After years...
But not all the way.
Silver light shining in a horizontal line
Against her heart.
Just enough space
To let the real her
In.
On days where she needs to remember
The dreams that once anchored her.
Just enough space
To forget about the impossibility.
The inability to be the girl who wasn’t
Anxious. Doubtful.
Too afraid to get too close to the
Edge.
Running, youthful faced with an open soul
Into the future.
I, once was her.
What’s left? After years...
#confessional
#SelfReflection
#choices
215 reads
7 Comments
NON-FICTION PROSE
Published
27th Dec 2022 8:47pm
27th Dec 2022 8:47pm
Judith's Place
On a brisk September evening many years ago, I remember visiting my grandmother's house on the island. Fall seemed to be peeking around the trees. The once forest green door on her front porch was chipping paint, revealing an orange rust. As I opened the door to enter, the worn-out hinges moaned a crackling tale. I felt I was witnessing the history of how many visitors, guests, and loved ones had walked through that very door.
I could hear a woman humming to a Willie Nelson song, the sound sweeping in on the fresh evening breeze. The recognizable smell of spices and herbs welcomed...
I could hear a woman humming to a Willie Nelson song, the sound sweeping in on the fresh evening breeze. The recognizable smell of spices and herbs welcomed...
#childhood
#family
#home #memories
#home #memories
300 reads
10 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
27th Dec 2022 8:12pm
27th Dec 2022 8:12pm
A part of him
It was a season passing,
an Indian summer that wouldn't cease.
The day I fluttered through that door,
a broken fool who felt she was done searching.
A longing stare from across the room
closed the distance between us.
The distance before,
between us two.
I don't recall being born,
and I won't remember dying.
But I do remember when your eyes met mine.
A stranger with a familiar smile,
whose hair fell in sways hiding lonely eyes.
Those eyes where flecks of deep brown
danced with a lighter hue.
...
an Indian summer that wouldn't cease.
The day I fluttered through that door,
a broken fool who felt she was done searching.
A longing stare from across the room
closed the distance between us.
The distance before,
between us two.
I don't recall being born,
and I won't remember dying.
But I do remember when your eyes met mine.
A stranger with a familiar smile,
whose hair fell in sways hiding lonely eyes.
Those eyes where flecks of deep brown
danced with a lighter hue.
...
#love
#dreams
324 reads
5 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
6th Dec 2022 2:45am
6th Dec 2022 2:45am
1940
Dreary mornings like these, I find myself thinking of her.
Fog saddled up against the shanty boat, nestling it softly into the Ohio River.
Her kin were too poor to own a land home. Four generations of us born at these docks.
Pap was the kind of man who drank potion to help him sleep but always woke up tired. He worked the hoot owl shift at the steel mill. He was an absent man. A soot covered ghost wondering to and from the boat throughout the week. He would lean down and place a kiss on my forehead, leaving the scent of teaberry gum and whiskey.
Gigi was a mysterious...
Fog saddled up against the shanty boat, nestling it softly into the Ohio River.
Her kin were too poor to own a land home. Four generations of us born at these docks.
Pap was the kind of man who drank potion to help him sleep but always woke up tired. He worked the hoot owl shift at the steel mill. He was an absent man. A soot covered ghost wondering to and from the boat throughout the week. He would lean down and place a kiss on my forehead, leaving the scent of teaberry gum and whiskey.
Gigi was a mysterious...
#family
#memories
273 reads
4 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
31st Oct 2022 6:10am
31st Oct 2022 6:10am
Awakening
Time has fallen asleep upon October.
Her moon was full
and it whispered.
Pathway paved silver with midnight.
The macabre trees shiver alive with the
cold, fluttering, vexatious wind of persuasion.
Dry wood crackling,
moaning hollow tales.
Her roots woven to this mortal plane.
A rooted sanctuary.
Leaves stir in the electric pull.
Gently, they rise.
Spirits of this land
Awakening.
Owl’s sing a haunting sonata to wandering prey.
Amber eyes like silence,
listening.
The empty, lost...
Her moon was full
and it whispered.
Pathway paved silver with midnight.
The macabre trees shiver alive with the
cold, fluttering, vexatious wind of persuasion.
Dry wood crackling,
moaning hollow tales.
Her roots woven to this mortal plane.
A rooted sanctuary.
Leaves stir in the electric pull.
Gently, they rise.
Spirits of this land
Awakening.
Owl’s sing a haunting sonata to wandering prey.
Amber eyes like silence,
listening.
The empty, lost...
#loneliness
#earth
#fall #night
#fall #night
344 reads
4 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
30th Oct 2022 3:58am
30th Oct 2022 3:58am
Three times the charm.
I’ve always kept my hands
busy.
Toiling with the scraggly pieces of denim laying frayed at my knee holes while my parents fight in the car.
Tapping my cheek with my mouth open just so I can hear that hollow noise, one two three. Three times the charm. I’m still here.
I would crack all ten of my knuckles and still try for that second round.
Like I said,
I’ve always kept my hands
busy.
As a little girl they would always tell me to stop fidgeting. Interesting how adults seem to have all the wrong solutions to adolescent...
busy.
Toiling with the scraggly pieces of denim laying frayed at my knee holes while my parents fight in the car.
Tapping my cheek with my mouth open just so I can hear that hollow noise, one two three. Three times the charm. I’m still here.
I would crack all ten of my knuckles and still try for that second round.
Like I said,
I’ve always kept my hands
busy.
As a little girl they would always tell me to stop fidgeting. Interesting how adults seem to have all the wrong solutions to adolescent...
#anxiety
#hope
#addiction
#gratitude
#vulnerability
233 reads
2 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
21st May 2022 5:01am
21st May 2022 5:01am
Nebraska.
You we’re a Pisces, with skin the color of leather.
Tough as they come.
In oil-stained Wranglers and mud dusted boots, your hands callused.
Humor came so easily to you, effortless really.
I can still hear that wild howl.
You were my father’s only brother, with you I was safe.
Still alive in my visons of younger days, boxing with our Dad in the attic.
Humid summer nights, loud rock accompanying.
Always singing Good Bye Blue Sky.
With my eyes closed, I can go back.
Sepia hued photos, a baseball glove and pitcher...
Tough as they come.
In oil-stained Wranglers and mud dusted boots, your hands callused.
Humor came so easily to you, effortless really.
I can still hear that wild howl.
You were my father’s only brother, with you I was safe.
Still alive in my visons of younger days, boxing with our Dad in the attic.
Humid summer nights, loud rock accompanying.
Always singing Good Bye Blue Sky.
With my eyes closed, I can go back.
Sepia hued photos, a baseball glove and pitcher...
#regret
#grief
432 reads
5 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
17th May 2022 9:46pm
17th May 2022 9:46pm
Down Cast
Into the car this morning,
Alone.
It’s a quarter to ten, my small window of peace.
I feel like Gilbert Grape,
walking around with a hidden shame for this is my newest secret.
She hasn’t always been this bad, my mother.
Her new plateau.
Answering my own question,
“Oh, August of last year since I have seen it clean.”
Since a guest has been over,
Or a table prepared for dinner.
She hasn’t always been this sick, my mother.
For me
A smile and pressed clothes.
At work – I look so put together.
My station so...
Alone.
It’s a quarter to ten, my small window of peace.
I feel like Gilbert Grape,
walking around with a hidden shame for this is my newest secret.
She hasn’t always been this bad, my mother.
Her new plateau.
Answering my own question,
“Oh, August of last year since I have seen it clean.”
Since a guest has been over,
Or a table prepared for dinner.
She hasn’t always been this sick, my mother.
For me
A smile and pressed clothes.
At work – I look so put together.
My station so...
#depression
#family
#bipolar
#MentalHealth
#aging
308 reads
5 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
7th May 2022 6:23am
7th May 2022 6:23am
Slipped by
The inner child’s ardent longing - for days that have come to pass. Hearken back to infinite summers, accompanied by contented nights. Carelessly floating on unlimited dreams, uninterrupted imagination. Flawlessly innocent, untouched by the stagnant weight this aging brings. The longing of ethereality and youthful wonder.
#anxiety
#confessional
#aging
#emptiness
#pandemic
272 reads
6 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
7th May 2022 5:11am
7th May 2022 5:11am
Seeking Fortune
Dreamt of a Palmist
Who studies hand riverbeds Teach me what you see.
Who studies hand riverbeds Teach me what you see.
#spiritual
#mirror
#SelfReflection
#acceptance
#choices
215 reads
6 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
4th Apr 2020 5:19am
4th Apr 2020 5:19am
The Times.
Feel that trouble ahead? It is like a bent hanger heated, as it sinks to lie deep in my skin. Blues come dancing, when they feel you can’t catch em’. Does the madness win? Storms have passed us, we have dodged some daggers, but this one is aimed at our back. Ominous forces, take over the land. To choose faith or fact.
#anxiety
493 reads
3 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
1st May 2018 5:38am
1st May 2018 5:38am
There - she will grow.
Down the hill, there is a gate. Red roses grow, a golden summer awaits. Is it still a vivid green? The mossy stones along the stream. A leafy forest lay quiet as the song birds sing. Is this the place children go to dream?
#childhood
#dreams
#forest
#nature
#peace
636 reads
6 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by IntoTheRain
