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rose-tinted bits

a collection of words, stories, and places

poetry

on days when darkness
threatens to roll

when the waves feel too strong
to hold onto.

Poetry is what I reach for.

 

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oranges and dusk

This has always been my favourite time of day.

When the light begins to soften
and the swallows warble their song,
dancing with the dusk.

You can smell the freshness of grass in the breeze,
and even though they say
oranges don’t bloom in winter.

This Winter, there is a sweetness in the air.

 

jbyd.

Spinning Stars

“I’ll go with you.”

I forget –

Did I stop and stare
or start with surprise?
Perhaps I looked at you with peculiarity
or perhaps, I dreamt this all up.

Did you say you would watch the stars with me?

***

I tuck a note in between the fold of your left elbow
under the moonlit night of yesteryear
It reads, “I like you, I think”.

Five words for five years
I have stopped wishing on stars.
Learning instead to draw into the empty spaces between,

tracing them back and forth
until the is night spinning, spinning
until the lights are blinking

and the vacant places are just waiting for me to call home.
Did you say you would watch the stars with me?

***

If I forgot to say, “yes, please, let’s go.”

Know that I meant, “Yes. Please.”
I meant, “No-one has ever said they will watch the stars with me.”
I meant, “Does this all mean anything to you?”

I meant, “No matter. Please never let the stars stop spinning.”

*

a spinning top spins, and spins, and spins
and I do not know if it will fall.

 

– jbyd

thicker skin

“this world will judge you no matter what you do – so live your life the way you want to”

so often I accept that it is not this time
which will be different
but the me who will be different,
this time.

and so often, every time, it still
continues to hurt
so much longer than the last time.
as if I do not know how to learn

to heal, to scab, to grow what they call
thicker skin.

 

jbyd.

 

On writing as therapy

as my words flow across the page,

as my keystrokes form Lego blocks

stacked
down
the screen

this, is how I am kind to myself.

 

Tell me about love

Tell me about love…
.

Tell me about the way it should be –
About how there are constellations burned into the sky
but the ones we find
are drawn in the spaces between.

Tell me how it feels –
How their hands will guide you
through hollow crowds and scarlet faces
Gently, safely, knowingly.

Tell me about love –
about the falling
the laughing
the spinning and knowing.
Not the hurt.

Do not tell me about the hurt.
Not tonight.

Tonight, just let me be
and let me see.
Let me fall in love
and believe in dreams.

 

jbyd.

Why is it that so often,
there is so much difference

between what we dream of
and what we settle for?

Turbulence

Once, in a nightclub in Las Vegas,
I kissed a boy I barely knew
between cluttered walls and smokescreen doors.
Kissing him was easier than the choices I had to make back home.

I had never been afraid of turbulence and he offered something certain.
More certain than anything I could offer myself.

I  grew up learning how to build the perfect plane
Shining silver, quick as ether, trajectory perfect,
certain as the mahogany.

But what are little girls, if not all pulsing things
learning what the world will take away from them.

When a plane is going through turbulence,
the pilot asks three things: hold steady, sit tight, and believe.

I have never been scared of turbulence
but this time – I am floating, adrift…

This time,
I am searching
for something I can hold onto forever,
and somehow never let go.

 

-jbyd.

FACTS WRITTEN FROM AN AIRPLANE

inspired by Sierra DeMulder’s poem of the same name

 

  1. If you blow smoke into a glass bottle, it stays suspended inside –  quiet, dark, mysterious – before slowly curling its way around the edges.
    .
  2. A man who does not wear a wedding ring should be unmarried.
    .
  3. Silence is colder than the harshest of winters. If you do not speak about someone for long enough, they will no longer exist in that space.
    .
  4. Writing a list of ways I could be better and writing a suicide note, is the same thing.
    .
  5. My ninth grade teacher once said, “poetry is for broken souls”. Today, I picked up the petals of daisies which had fallen on the porch. Define broken.
    .
  6. The strongest emotion is not love, but jealousy. It will burn you until there is nothing left except the seared smell of skin on woodfire. No one ever says karma is overrated.
    .
  7. As a child, I believed that if you captured smoke in a bottle, it would settle at the bottom – circling, pooling, swirling – like some conjured genie in a fairytale novel.

 

So somewhere across the Pacific, a thousand miles up –
there is a broken bonfire,
and I am searching for genies.

.

jbyd.

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