To content | To menu | To search

Tuesday 23 July 2013

The Weight Of Water

The Weight Of Water

By Kelly Grace Thomas


In tide water torment,

lost in a house built on aching eyes,

I swallow the past in broken pieces of where the glue didn’t stick,

Salt-water expectation erode with tides push and pull in the tumble.

Love is a ghost that lives on the lake of full moon survival.

We rearrange furniture to see the world differently,

but never leave the house.

At breakfast I am reminded of the nights I spent with each,

different shades of blue I met at midnight,

how each called my name.

Silent kitchen table meditation, swim in their forgotten touch.

Once so close, now like strangers on a bus.

I wonder where they drink their coffee,

I wonder what or who each is missing.

I wonder what rearview reflections hold when the lyrics stick.

Cold pancakes, sweet and sticky in a breakfast diner, stories break.

Left overs that leave you hungry.

Rooms are decorated by the absence of what used to be or never was.

Posters, with yellowed marks where their memories hang.

Our search for place will never end.


I stopped floating when I was thirteen, felt the weight of the world

like the handcuffs of God,

Knuckles on my shoulder pressing me down, asking me to drink what it means to be heavy.

to understand buoyancy is not a right.

Ignorance, a luxury I was never afforded.

Sometimes I think I feel too much.

Stories live inside my veins, boa construct my heart until I can wrestle them out

translate the experience in similes.

I am sea glass, tumbled and scraped,

Cloudy in flight,

smoothness will be birthed through the storm

but first I must be held under. 

Sunday 14 July 2013



By Kelly Grace Thomas


Before I was rescued from the sea

I searched for lifelines with shaking hand,

was held by the under toe of repeating memories

floated in tears of wanting back something I never had.


I climbed a buoy, sat like a greedy seagull, whose want was so loud

it woke even the darkest creatures that lived at the bottom.

My call like the screech of a dying faith,

a church with empty pews.

I spoke of only lack, always hungry, always calling.


Before I got rescued from the sea,

Everything felt so big, and empty,

Lonely and drifting.

I couldn’t control the current, wind or wildlife

Tides of torment, waves breaking in my eyes.

Lungs breathing in salt water, questions pulling me down.

Before I got rescued from the sea I suddenly remembered,

I've always known how to swim. 

Saturday 29 June 2013

The Goodbye Poem

The Goodbye Poem

By Kelly Grace Thomas


There was once a night that I almost said I love you.

And many mornings where your blue eyes almost said it back.

I have put those almosts in boxes.

Labeled that which no longer serves me,

to never forget how hungry they made me.


Mornings of picking out ties.

Afternoons of long car rides where we navigated between laughter and silence.

Nights of wine tasting and conversation where we swam in each others’ deep ends.

All away in boxes.

I have erased the pictures of a time I keep wishing to go back to.

Vineyard vines wrapped like chains.

Dirt roads that went in cirlces.

The glow of a television like an exit sign.

The hole got bigger and until one day, I laid on the couch next to a stranger.


You didn’t want to but you had to,

obligation is the death of anyone wanting to be free.


You asked me so many times to run away from you.

Always so trapped. Never saying what you wanted.

Brewing beneath the surface.

I tried to reach you, but burnt my fingers pretending I had the ingredients.

Left post-its to remind us both.

As if we couldn've lived perfectly amongst commutes and presidential elections.

Dreams of East Coast and ambition.

The restlessness of a blue tornado and chained silence you think makes you strong.

There were moments of relaxation, as I laid down in your arms

you would whisper “So much better” into my hair.

You needed love as much as I did.


Saturday 15 June 2013

Patio Philosophy

Patio Philosophy

By Kelly Grace Thomas


The unraveling came in waves,

threaded conversations

that broke in backyard patio thoughts in Adirondack chairs.

Conversations that slither between blinks throw you ten years back,

All the wide open-endedness.   

Specs on maps too far away

from home.

Only our hearts can navigate.  

We talk of commutes and wine tasting in grown-up shoes.

But the return of bad habit scream like headlines on welcome mats waiting to be protested.

There is no rock to set your feet upon.

No constant that doesn't slip through terrified thumbs.

You are not the person who used to be, but sometimes you need to visit the past

to realize the journey of distance.

Life is a series of ladders

where rungs fall like baby teeth

Shaky and loose.

 Leaving gaps.

Sometimes you need faith to fill in the space. 

Thursday 13 June 2013

Before Goodbye

Before Goodbye

By Kelly Grace Thomas


The weight of parting breaks

after sunset, in those hours of cherry-blossom sweetness,

where you’re not far enough away for nostalgia to bud,

but looking back is a drug you’re three days away from quitting.

We sit in our silence, like buoys chained,

feeling the rock of each wave,

wanting to break,

to bow to the power of moments

that hang in the air, like cigarette smoke in the wake of ceilings fans.

The wait to say goodbye sits, like rocks in the pocket of a child

he knows will be discarded on the walk home,

yet he can’t keep from thumbing.

To feel the smoothness of journey.

To touch the rough crevice of movement.

Even the most beautiful trees lose their leaves with seasons

Hold tight to the roots to know the nature of each natural disaster.

And so we spin on.

Sometimes we are part of the rotation,

Sometimes we must rotate ourselves.



Wednesday 5 June 2013



By Kelly Grace Thomas


It’s been a coffee spoon minute and a night of exhaled memories

since I placed pen to paper without trying to please.

Since I’ve woken up without retracing each sentence,

holding my breath, bare feet on cold tile,

to see where my words will fall.

If a measured moon cycle egg times a habit,

I will wait until it is full.

Because I refuse to ever be half of anything.

Empty patios with last seasons leaves knock at my door,

remind me of my pieces,

I pretend no one is home.

Write postcards from my bed.

I would rather flirt with the nameless purple bloom of faith,

that dots purple sidewalks and makes the homeless smile. 

Summer run faster. I can almost feel you.

I sit in a kitchen with more books than plates.

Eating pineapple with my bare hand and thinking of all the

things I have tasted through this year where I decided to know myself.

Sitting in the stillness of bathtub water and floating words,

I have learned to spot the seasons. 

Thursday 23 May 2013

The Marathon: 26 parts


Mile 1

I have alway searched for the footing to prove strength.Born equal parts small to smart, found dependency a drug that I won’t even try once,because even in nameless alleys, or houses built by muted colors, everyone becomes addicted to something, even if it’s love. So I ran alone. 

Mile 2

I write my name in sandpaper tears of ancestor emu and antelope. Together we run to remember the worth, break boulders against each hesitant kiss. Stop telling myself that I am the problem. I shouldn’t scratch for kindness like a hermit crab for sand. I only wanted to find water. 

Mile 3

The sound of a million footsteps, poetry on pavement, turn beauty into blister and we all race to recognize our pain. The hurt is expensive. And more hollow than wind that never finds a home to rest in. When I told you sweet dreams, you never once said it back. Buyer beware: guys peddling the nice guy storyline always have something to prove. Hard-sells are see through, but price tags play hide and go seek with time.

Mile 4

I will go into hiding with red-wine stained books, licking poetry out of the salt. These messages will not drown in glass bottles. They will learn how to swim. Send each question I never asked you out to sea. Know that it was pointless to wonder. Sometimes rains knocks on a soul so hard, that a different person opens the door. Look in the mirror know what it is to sweat. To want something so bad, your body cries sodium, potassium, calcium and magnesium like love notes left in lockers with no reply.

Mile 5

The starting line is an alarm clock that never stops ringing. This race, like church bells crying for salvation. This race, screams the dirge of broken blue gospels. This race, of lonely heartbeats left behind in hotels closets. There has to be one saint left to remind us what is good. I will no longer pretend. Don't ask me to carpool after you have already driven away.

Mile 6

Why sadness look more beautiful in cursive? When did the word no became a calling card? Silence the laughter. Award the obedient. I was named rebel, as soon as they does saw me. Took an extra three weeks to make an entrance. Emerald eyes on missile lock. No could pay me to keep these words shut.

Mile 7

Tonight the distance sizzle of power lines are waiting to be awoken. I think of this morning, the silhouette of palm tress I named as friends. The hot shower, the strong coffee. It took a Monday to name my worth and a Sunday to let it go. My forgotten breakfast reads like a headline, Albert Einstein’s definition of insanity. Try. Hurt. Repeat. Sleep. Wake Up. Hurt. Repeat. When will I wake up?

Mile 8

Thirty feet of eye contact is enough to shatter the air in exhales. Pull my door close and lean against it, remember what it is to stand up straight. I am not a sprinter, maybe it just got too fast.

Mile 9

Blue ink on couches will remind me of long walks in empty vineyards. Of moments of honesty I continue to hang hope. But I remind myself, leave post-its of courage all over my living room, hoping they draw a map away from misdirection.

Mile 10

Don't leave this masterpiece in the closet. On road trips with heated seats, I narrated street signs, so we would always know where we were at. I didn't see this turn.

Mile 11

Post cards of of deserving better will be placed in photo albums to show grandchildren. He should tell you you’re beautiful, I will whisper. Remind them that gentleman have manners. They are happy to help, even in the pouring rain. If they off assistance that ends in a “only if you” close the door quickly. Remember you don’t need shelter, if you get out of the storm. Do not be a natural disaster. Remember you too are strong.

Mile 12

There are no lines in the sandbox. I am not sure which side is mine or how far away to stand. I try to keep my broken toys in the cabinet. Never ask for glue.  The parts play dress-up: sit like a statue, cry in the bathtub, remind myself it takes the length of a toe to cross a line. You yo-yoed my importance. Moving me up and down. It’s time to cut the string.

Mile 13

You want to know why I never asked you to stay. I could see the traps before they were baited. Wearing uncertainty like a cheap cologne, your second guessing linger after you have left the room. All heavy eye contact that speaks in accents of walls I will never move. Over Greek food and a cabernet more bold than either one of us could be, I cursed my own independence. Knew I would only try so hard. 

- page 2 of 14 -