June 1st Freewrite *While Listening to The Moon Song*

We're here, a million miles away.

Sitting here softly,
soft yellow lamplight,
soft blue of a dying day.
Soft music in my ears,
soft voice,
soft chords.

There's things I wish I knew.

Peace is such a strange and transient feeling.
When it comes, it wraps its arms around you,
it breathes quiet whispers of quiet words,
and suddenly you feel the unbearable weight of the now in your heart,
all the beauty that will never again collide in this order.
You see the moment as a memory already.
The gold and fading indigo of a nighttime room,
the suggestion of a chill on your skin.
Maybe you'll forget the song, the name of the song,
the notes and the words.
But you won't forget how it feels,
right here, right now.

You're Living, And That's All Anyone Ever Did

New Writing

Spin

And here you are again, baby,
paralyzed with fear.
Scared you're not living enough,
scared of the coming years.
Well hush up baby,
hush up dear.
Throw open the windows,
smell the cool salt air.
Throw a jazz vinyl on,
and let it spin spin spin.
The years will soon be gone,
so just spin spin spin.
You're living, and that's all anyone ever did.
So just spin baby,
spin.

5.18.14

Not Enough of a Cynic

I Saw A Black Car Drive By.
I Did Not Know If It Was a Hearse or a Limousine.
I Began to Consider
How Perhaps They Were Not Really So Different At All
but,
I Decided I Would Rather Leave It To The Cynics

5.4.14

Sunday Night

It's Sunday night,
And I feel suspended, for a second,
By the sea-salt blue breeze
That stirs the tallest tips of the trees.
Caught like the sky between yesterday and tomorrow.
I know that next morning
Time will once again pull me in it's current,
But tonight it lets me float.

5.4.14

Untitled 5.14.14

I know the field ends.
But in the light of late spring
I see only green.

5.14.14.

Untitled 5.6.14

Rain on a clear day.
The sky blue brushed with gold
and the clouds far away.

It reminds me of the times I cry
without knowing why.

Maybe because I'm bad at rhyming.

Nighttime Over The Atlantic

A pearl moon is set in its shell of ink-dark indigo
tonight,
casting silver powder showers down onto an ocean
of wisp thin mist.
I fly high above,
in a void of tidal winds and turbid currents,
and watch ripples move across a cloud-bank sea.

4.18.14

Madrid Book Haul

I'm home from Spain! Honestly, the whole experience was wonderful and felt like some kind of dream, and I'll definitely be talking more about my adventures when I post my pictures from the trip. But first things first, books.

I was wandering around in Madrid with a couple of friends, and fate happened. We were walking down a street off the Plaza Del Sol and I was complaining that all I had seen were souvenir shops and generic clothing stores when I looked to the left and BAM. A scene straight from Tumblr. Right off this big street there was a little stone alley, and set up on it was a used book stall. It had all of these old Spanish books, shelves and tables of them, along with watercolors and vintage photographs. Literally when I saw it I stopped dead in the street and gasped. I was really sad at first since all the books appeared to be in Spanish and I am a french-speaker, but then I saw a little box labeled "Frances", filled with all of these old French books. Needless to say, at this point I pretty much flung all the money I had at the lady who owned the store.

I ended up with four books: Coeur au Zenith by Louis Bauguion, L'Iris De Suse by Jean Giono, A La Recherche de L'Unite by E. Techoueyres, and La Petite Fille Au Bout De Chemin by Laird Koenig. I'm in love with the packaging of old French books: they're very understated, and the pages are suchhhhh nice quality.

Coeur Au Zenith is quickly becoming one of my favorite books physically that I own. I love the parchment paper wrapping and the simple text on the front and spine. It was published in 1934, and it's sort of crazy to me that I have a book in my hands that was made in France almost a century ago. There's something about the phrase at the beginning, "Vivre seul au monde" (to live alone in the world) that speaks to me. It captures that feeling you sometimes get when you realize however close you get to people, there will always be a separation between you and them, that at the end of the day it is only you. It's hard to put into words but I think the phrase, especially in French, comes as close as possible.

This book was published in 1970. I actually have no idea what it's about; the cover flap seemed to be talking about a flower and then lapis lazuli and then architecture and then the invention of zero, so I guess I'll just find out when I read it.

This book seems to be a philosophy book, which I'll never say no to. It was published in 1937, and the pages are all browned around the edges. I just love feeling the paper, it's such nice quality.

This book was actually written in English first and translated to French. The French edition was published in 1974. It's a thriller about a thirteen year old girl who lives alone on Long Island with her dad, and doesn't go to school. It should be pretty fun to read and maybe after I finish it I'll get the English edition to compare. I love reading in French because there are some ways that ideas are said that just can't be translated to English, or that present things in a little bit of a different way. One of my favorite examples is that you would say quelqu'un me manque, instead of I miss something. Something is doing the missing to you. It's a little bit of a different idea, and it's really fun to find things like that in another language.

My pictures from Spain will be up soon, so stay tuned for those!

Salt Skin

Fill the bath halfway.
Water hot.
Steam rising.
Pour salt.

Swirl with foot.

Is it dissolved?
Yes.
Step in.
Sit down.
Silence.
Feel the salt on your skin.
Silence.
Do you hear the ocean?
Silence.
You breathe and the water moves.
Back and forth.
In and Out.
Do you feel the tides?
Silence.
Drops of sweat roll down your face.
Feel the salt on your skin.
Silence.
Lick your upper lip.
Taste the salt on your tongue.
Do you hear the ocean?
Silence.
Stand up.
Pull the drain.
Rinse the salt off your skin.
Silence.

3.31.14

Waiting to Fall

A white 

ceramic 

mug

placed on the edge of the table,

a semi-circle ring jutting out over the precipice.

Coffee sitting stagnant in its belly, 

tasting colder, 

staler, 

with each sip.

Leaving a stained rime on the virgin white

where it has receded.

It sits there, inches away from my hand.

Nails bitten down, 

discolored

patches dry and flaky,

wrinkles beginning to show.

I watch,

from the corner of my eye.

The mug.

So brittle. 

Already lines 

in the places I know it would break apart

if it fell.

when it fell.

My hand heavy on the table,

turned lead with the power

of possibility,

the what if.

The I could.

I see the liquid 

spreading across the tiles,

pungent,

seeping out from between sharp edges

of ceramic shards.

Spreading still, 

down tracks of grout. 

Until a faceless person

lays down a rag and sops the mess up.

Sweeps the stained-ivory pieces aside,

throws the whole deal in a trash can to be driven away 

the next morning.

But my hand has not moved yet,

and still the mug sits with a semi-circle of rim jutting over the precipice,

and my hand tensed,

and watching

watching

waiting,

waiting,

waiting.



-Skye K.
January 29th 2014

Watercolors

Her life was like a watercolor painting.
Everything running and bleeding into eachother,
No straight lines.
A quiet rebellion in the flow and blend,
The refusal to stay where put.
You got the sense upon meeting her she didn't much know where she was going,
And she didn't much care either,
Because she trusted that in life,
Like in art,
Like in a watercolor painting,
There are never truly mistakes.

My Personal Sea

(Henry-Joseph Harpignies 1819-1916)

I've always had a strange sort of sadness in me.

A deep-rooted ache,

A dull-edged strain of melancholy.

Those around cast glances my way

when I fail to shed tears

over the events of the day. 

Over the comings and goings,

the commonplace tragedies,

the lives and the deaths.

They don't understand the sorrow

of sunrises and sunsets.

Its the thoughts of unknown

that gnaw at my heart.

It's the ideas I can touch,

but not feel,

that set me apart.

For I envy those whose tears

flow fast and free

as a clear mountain spring

emptying into a mutual sea.

Instead I walk the shores of a fathomless lake,

averting my gaze from the depths

of black and blue,

if only for my sanity's sake.

Perhaps one day a lone soul will find me,

having stumbled upon my personal sea,

and together, with dry eyes and heavy hearts,

we'll drown in this unspoken misery.

--by Skye

Henri Bendel Is Beckoning With New Arrivals

So guess what I found in my inbox today? That's right. Henri Bendel New Arrivals. I knew that I shouldn't. I knew that it would only send me into a downward emotional spiral. But I did. I'm not proud of it, but I clicked. And Oh Lord. They've outdone themselves again. Amongst the mixed squeals and sobbing, I felt the need to express my suffering and ecstasy through poetry. I warn you. This may be the most jam-packed with feels poem I have ever written. Also the worst. Also, don't even try to look for a rhyme scheme.

It's just one click away,

the feel of unwrapping presents on christmas day

but why do I have to pay

and why is my birthday so far past May?

Pages upon pages of leather and silk goods

there's a handbag for every one of my multiple moods

A crystal bow headband, a purse for the train?

Perhaps a fine scarf, in a deep purple stain

Bendel, that rascal, he taunts and he calls

He seduces with luxury items you simply cant find at the malls

Look here, a deco bow bangle

Look there, a floral luggage tag!

My emotions I must wrangle,

my shopaholism makes my spirit sag

The prices send me reeling

but I wont consider stealing

I'll simply eat my cares away

and hope to own these items, some place, some day.

I really hope college admissions don't find that.

But it would be selfish of me to keep all that luxury to myself, so feast your eyes!

 The Jetsetter To Die For Drawstring

The Bamboo Stripe Barrel

The No. 7 Small Blocked Barrel

Disturbed Stripe Graphic Hatbox Wheelie

Tied Crystal Leather Headband

I refrained from including the prices so you wouldn't have to suffer as I have suffered. 

Border World

So, I've been musing with the idea of writing a poem called "The Border World" just because I think it sounds kind of cool. I started tonight and wrote eight lines, but the last four lines I inadvertently slipped into rhyming; I actually ended up liking the last four lines better so I crossed out the first four.

The Border World

A border world that floats between

What you see before you and your dreams.

A snow-blank page where reality resides

Amongst the inky black behind your eyes.

I have to figure out where to go with this- I think it's becoming about writing? And also is amongst a word because it keeps underlining it in red....