what it be let it be let what should be free, be freed within thee and what has to be, be by my own decree Just let what be and let others flee when it is time for them to flee (Let me flee, I must Flee) for I am free, to be me for what is freed within you is also freed within me so let be what needs to be and be freed ~ A. L. Stippich
a tear
There's a tear In there, somewhere Where my heart used to care Where there was no Despair Where my face felt the air, and Fear Never used to scare; There's a tear There's a tear in there ~ A. L. Stippich
slow boats
that faithful cigarette
burns a hole
in her side,
displaced thoughts
dance
along the corners
of her abandoned
room, as
slow boats rip
against
the high tides
of her troubled
mind
a selfless
suicide, (vacancy)
plays a tune
behind those hostile
eyes;
her thin words
etched
along the
dotted line
who is she?
(a ghost?)
a piece of familiar
a shadow of
yesterday
creeping up
from behind
to pull you
under
(the ocean's
deep)
and the slow boats
still wander
just a throw from
the shore
as the waves still
roar,
so i close
my eyes
and let the water
in
~ A. L. Stippich
Fuck April
Vulnerability alert, kids, heads up.
You know those points in your life where it feels like after every wake and before every sleep, everything is falling apart. Bad news is sitting on the edge of anticipation and the ache of it fills up all the gaps inside of you.
That’s been April here in 2021.
I’ve hated April for many, many years. It’s my birth month, which has meant endless yearly cycles of bad shit happening within the month along with the yearly reminder that I am still here when I would prefer so badly to not be. Some may find comfort in birthday times. I can’t, I refuse. April breeds pain, tears, loneliness, haunting, and devastation too often.
This month, my family has endured multiple losses, painful surgeries and difficult breakdowns to name a few. Not to mention everything in the news for just this week alone. It’s exhausting and taking a numbing toll. This week, in the chaos, I stopped being able to cry. I’ve tried now for days just to get it off of my chest and realized I am entirely too numb to do so.
I am tired. I am worn and for the remainder of April, I’ve decided I am going to recharge and hopefully restart myself again here in May.
I hope anyone else out there feeling the weight of life here on earth right now is able to step back, rest, recharge, and reset.
❤
the woman in the woods
she hangs her roses deep in the middle of the woods a thick tree with a high branch, it groans under the weight she starts from the top and lets them swing down, low petals graze the mossy earth (her roses sway where her children can’t see from the bottom of the creek where she left them to play) and before they drop and before they sway her roses from the branch begin to weep, and the children wail from the bottom of the deep but their voices won’t be heard for they no longer speak and in the middle of the woods where her roses died, the children of the creek will always cry while the hunters of the woods keep their watchful eyes, though none will ever understand why she hung her roses in the middle of the woods ~ A. L. Stippich
seeds
i could shatter to pieces, words are only fictions for the broken to capture and let linger on the tips of their tongues; frozen and desperate they become a small reason to hope important lessons are left in the hands of the less capable; how then is a plant expected to grow when it is begun from a dead seed? ~ A. L. Stippich
unbiased
if we could disconnect the sun the clouds could separate our tongues, light no longer shed on things we have done (if we could only disconnect the sun) ~ A. L. Stippich
April Showers
The month of March has really beat me to a pulp, hence the lack of posts. Sometimes the emotional ups and downs in mental health are just too much and the idea of practicing vulnerability feels more like horror and suffocation and makes me want to hide forever.
With that being said, I am going to attempt to start April fresh with a hearty month of poetry (and plants. And yarn…).
Enjoy.
southern bells (mama)
Mama, There is trouble in the dark folds of the clouds There's a steady wind that's stirrin' A foul chill from the southern towns There is death on the horizon, Hatred hangin' from the trees People trying to be heard but Being brought down on their Hands and knees Mama, There's a war that's spilling dark blood into the ground, We tried to warn them with our words But monsters swallowed up the sound Mama, mama, there is trouble, And we've hidden underground. The plague is ripe, the dead have grown And they are coming for us now Mama, There is trouble, breeding ugly all around. We were soldiers in the war, Now we're six feet underground Mama, know I'll always love you, I hope you see me when you sleep. I keep your picture in my mind, I keep your memory buried deep ~ A. L. Stippich
maternity
a childless mother of none a heathen, (To fail) her purpose redirected at the tender age of twenty two (a walking casket, the crowd throws flowers, and mourns, spitting sentiments of well wishes and good health. Rejoice!) open up the hollow points of her decaying Womb, (the space has been labeled an empty tomb) Wasted and stripped, for her purpose is not but to exist, and Nothing more ~A. L. Stippich
Life at the Burrow 