A Little Voice Came Leaping

Just after I turned four years old my mother gave me my first journal. The first few entries I made were actually dictations written out by my mother, but eventually, I was able to write out my own words in my own hand. As evidenced by the journal, my days as a four year old were filled with making observations and communicating concerns about the life I maintained. One of the most hilarious is revealed in the one-lined entry, "I wish I could read". Since then I have continued to track my observations and concerns in journals of different colors, bindings, and sizes. Now, with the new year, and thus change and positive development in mind, I have decided to start a new journal right here, on this page. I'm pledging at least a poem (or some other kind of entry) a week to aid in making my little voice, and any others out there that have a desire to be heard, to come leaping out of the boxes we often mistakenly keep them in.

Poem No. 51

I am yours at night

In your bed,

In the quiet,

We hold hands like

Everyone else at the table. 

You don’t look at me and, 

I think of all the ways you touch me

Without your hands 

In bed,

I’m holding nothing,

So nothing’s yours 

At night.


Poem No. 50

I burn bridges so

I can stand on the ashes

Climbing. Higher. Down. 


“A quiet secluded life in the country, with the possibility of being useful to people to whom it is easy to do good, and who are not accustomed to have it done to them; then work which one hopes may be of some use; then rest, nature, books, music, love for one’s neighbor — such is my idea of happiness.”

—   Leo Tolstoy, Family Happiness
"or if your wish be to close me,i and my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly"

Poem No. 49

Jealousy spins webs

Over his new lover’s mouth

Catching every breath


Poem No. 47

Insomnia wreaks

Havoc on these who have lost

Sleep to lovers long



Poem No. 45

Without even knowing

You touch me

Through all the empty space you occupy

Every corner of my mind and

Every shadow of my soul

Filling my ears with the sounds of your emptiness

Without even knowing

You touch me



Poem No. 44

Imitation is not my friend

When I act out our would be conversations

Opening the door to greet you

Embracing you in quiet calm

Does nothing for these ruins

That traipse across my memory like sickly ghosts hunting their tombstones

(Rest, rest)

While the rest of the world sleeps beneath the silence that used to comfort me

I toss and turn in sheets of limitations

With only these arms to hold me.


Poem No. 43

Constantly alarmed

We wait on the steps of a house that is nearly creaking

Watching sounds move in the darkness

That is your voice


“As you enter positions of trust and power, dream a little before you think.”

—   Toni Morrison