expose my roots in warm sunlight
soften all stems
let pearls fall
lean in closer
geosmin scented breath
see how twisted old thoughts grow
don’t go yet
shine through the particles
show me yours
9/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
my shadow threw flowers
into the sea for you. floated
words on petals, threads
for you to pull. calling
through bright sun, casting
into murky waters. see
how closed curtains float
when blown. fresh lemon
wind leaning against bark
until the wood vibrates
you—again and again.
8/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
When Spider-Man comes to your house,
you unlock the deadbolt and brace yourself.
He has to clear the entryway at a full sprint,
and you don’t want to be collateral damage.
When Spider-Man comes to your house,
you better have sourdough toast, pickles,
and sparkling water on the counter.
Apparently, saving the neighborhood
requires a very specific diet.
When Spider-Man comes to your house,
he will absolutely chase your rabbit around the backyard.
He’ll get burrs stuck to his polyester muscles,
sit in the hammock to pick them off,
and roast your gardening skills.
When Spider-Man comes to your house,
he might peel back his mask just far enough to breathe,
expose his secret identity,
and clobber you at dominoes
until he literally rolls off his chair laughing.
When Spider-Man comes to your house,
you will notice the exact moment
his shins match the length of yours.
You’ll look at his massive feet,
look at the trail of stuffed animals leading into the hallway,
and accept reality:
A superhero is in your living room right now.
So you forget the gardening. You ignore the toys.
And you get on the floor.
7/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
it bled in again,
choking the lights to a dull gray—
predictably lame,
with broken teeth
to gnaw frayed scabs
like grinding old gum.
the silence roaring like white noise,
crawling through me,
carving old words into my stomach,
predictably lame syllables
hissing like searing wounds.
until—predictably lame—
stupid tears burst forth
stealing my breath
reminding me:
doing nothing gets nothing.
so do nothing again
and get nothing again—
but I am so damn tired
of choking on it.
6/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
one time i stood
under a flowering pear tree
in my wild backyard
and thought, this is good.
it was warm
and i’d just finished nursing my baby girl.
she heavy-slept in a sling
on my freckled chest.
her hair was red
and my feet were bare.
one time i stood
on a street in london
in my doc martens
and thought, this is good.
it was warm
and i’d just toured buckingham palace
pretending i belonged.
steaming tea, a double-decker bus.
my dress was red
and my socks were yellow.
one time i stood
all alone
in my choked bedroom—
the air was hot,
the bed unmade—
a shadow stretched
over drifts of laundry
left to fold.
my face was red,
the pen denting my thumb,
and i thought,
is this good?
5/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
freedom used to be yellow.
simple like holding my grandmother’s hand
in the church pews on sunday.
simple like the ribbons we tied
around the thick bark of the trees,
waiting for the soldiers to come home.
maybe that is why i still like parades.
the heavy hooves of the horses,
the bright brass of marching bands,
the gleam of old cars,
bubbles floating in the summer air.
i want it to be yellow again.
but knowledge changes all the colors.
i cannot pretend anymore.
it does not mean what it used to.
some people choose the blindness of yellow.
some people see the truth.
4/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
sweet girl,
when those fast feet dance
outside the library
to music living inside your bones,
and my screen glows awake
to swallow the moment,
do you know
it’s the years i’m holding?
you, right now—
a bright flash of wild curly hair
saved for later.
you call out “gigi dance”
and I do,
because my tired body
wants to always remember
what it feels to move with you.
your small hand
guiding my heavier bones.
we play, talk, and say hi
to our oak tree,
but it’s when we sing together
and you press your head into my chest
before climbing into your big girl bed,
i feel the new weight
of your lengthening limbs.
3/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
cars zoom past to anywhere but
here, each carrying someone’s entire
world. bees swarm inside my chest,
heavy and frantic, a hum vibrating
beneath my ribs. only my finger
moves, pressing each letter
into my phone, like sitting
years ago in the sand, pushing
rocks down as far as they would go.
maybe if i press hard enough now
it will reach you. a little gift
from my hand to yours. a single bee
let loose across the distance. do you see
the sun cutting through the leaves
too? does the air taste like honey
there? i need everything to be okay,
for you, for us.
clouds streak white, smudges in pale blue.
buzzing slows to a quiet ache.
i just need to hear you say—
it’s all going to be okay.
one more thread for us.
2/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
lizards dart out of the bushes
every time I open the front door
rustling warnings when I don’t
need them. wrote the word
connection over and over within
lined pages of my green
goddess notebook, planning
return of self, for self, to others
or is it for others? today, tomorrow—
each day is another chance
for words to gather within
my apron pockets if only fingers
weren’t so tired. or
slippery. forgiveness given
when not asked for, makes arms
ache for something lost. no, never
was. illusions rustle whispering
here we go again, eat until full
this time. don’t worry about crumbs—
you don’t have to clean everything
everyone—
you can rustle too
whenever you want.
1/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
birthday soon
leaves begin their autumn dress
eager wind rushes to receive
only in dreams, summer remains
—Neil, 2021
As many of you know, my dear friend and fellow blogger, Neil Reid, left us last November. Today would have been his 78th birthday. In honor of his kind heart and beautiful writing, I’d like to share with you two poems that will be in our poetry collection coming out next spring. The first one I wrote in honor of Neil, and the second is a favorite poem of his. He had a way of stringing together many different ideas to make you understand a deep truth. The photo above is of his beloved dragon statue which made it’s way to me. It’s magical, like him.
I miss him so much.
If you have a favorite Neil memory, please share it. Or, if his writing is new to you, read more and let me know what you think.
you are my moose
four legs rooted in soil
stars dancing in dark pupils
sniffing for ripe plums
running from wolves
you hand me threads
wrapped around words
unraveling big pills
not wooden, real live boy
feet kissing earth
you turn toward light
living moss-covered verbs
bowls of ocean water
melt like sugar does
children need sunlight
you wanted Neverland
stories told under willows
hunger turned into warmth
forgetting ancient lost faces
harvest moon dancing
you call me mother
as in honey comb
solid tree branches
bend into dream blossoms
nests, fragile eggs
you remain soft bear
flowing tidal kindness
snuggling soft memories
chocolate cake, closed eyes
embrace salty breath
you return home
tail, fin, gills, scales
shyness turned into galaxies
unafraid of unknown shapes
love is a bucket
we keep filling
forever
—Bridgette
when I can’t quite see you. unclear. obstructed.
cluttered by stray thought. sound but no sight.
although more than an arm’s length away. or,
maybe it’s just smoke. fine bits of something
recently burnt. a particulate suspended mass.
describe smoke
when I called, you came to me. only a few steps
measured away, but it meant you had to get up,
get out of bed. something in the dark looked
awry. my height marked in pencil, ascending
on the doorway jam. yours by a calming hand.
describe mother
she was always there. more than anyone. her.
feeder of stray cats, any cats. hands that held
no threats, not to anyone. a gingham dress.
always. at least my always. memory bigger
than me. mother of mother.
describe Janet
you come from out of the ground. you come
from mountaintops. you come from high and
grey and green and white and dark, clouds we
say. one drop at a time still makes an ocean
to waiting watchful acolytes. thirst. we drink.
describe water
check mark all of the above. a first beginning,
eagerly. tell me all the stars. tell me all the
worlds. tell me about me and about you. I’m
all ears. I’ll bring the old cooking pot.
describe everything
you come from the ground when I call. you answer thirst.
you bake bread. I comb your hair. cat’s asleep on the bed.
you are rolling brown grass hills. my hand knows the curves.
you are a bowl of soup. you are inside when outside is rain.
describe loving
—Neil
You’ll forever be my water, Neil. Happy Birthday.
Bridgette Tales 