The Poem About Crater Jumping

The Poem About Crater Jumping

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

The dust in our eyes must have come from the same star.

That's the only way I can explain how you manage to see me so clearly.

Lesson one: the universe has an abundant supply of options.

It will always have something, someone, to spend its lifetime with.

Moonwalkers have it a bit harder.

They struggle to keep their feet on the ground; their shoulders like the way they look when they are clothed in clouds.

Starlight and fireflies look the same from a distance,

but once a view becomes familiar,

Astronauts learn to tell the difference.

You thought breathing was hard?

Try crater jumping without the assurance that someone if there to catch you.

Your eyes are cloudy, but I know that they see past the meteor debris.

Your soul understand what my metaphors mean.

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She: A Verbal Portrait

She: A Verbal Portrait

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

She is like the ocean; constant and yet, always moving.

Always up for a challenge; always on an adventure.

She is a sailor's mouth with a siren's laugh.

She is a navigator; she knows all the shortcuts, but sometimes she takes the wrong turn.

She is a maker of memory maps.

She is always up for the journey, no matter the destination.

She is a puzzle piece; an old country song you forgot about but rediscovered.

She is strong shoulders, good for carrying the weight of the world, and ears that were made for listening.

She is the inside joke that gets funnier every time.

She is a mess, with muddy jeans and tangled hair; a half interrupted song and makeup scattered around the room.

She is a lot of things that I will never be able to put to word, and yet, here I go...foolishly trying.

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A Woman

A Woman 

A Poem By Brigid Cooley

Society tells young girls that in order to be a woman of worth, they had better walk tall.

Their hips had better sway as the wind blows their hair out of their faces.

"Women look better with long hair."

"Women seem more confident in heels."

"I can't believe you're eating that whole hamburger; do you know how many calories are in that?"

"People will take you more seriously when you have red lipstick on."

When I was a girl, I bought into it.

When Society's woman walked by, I would whisper to myself, "That is who I want to be when I grow up."

Nowadays, for every rule Society throws at me, I answer back with a question.

"What about the women who can't walk tall because she is weathered and need a break?

"The woman who clings to her cane with her gnarled hands; is she not a woman to you?"

"The mother whose hair falls out a bit more with every chemo treatment she undergoes; is she less beautiful to you?"

"The women who choose to raise the children that you continue to call clumps of cells; are they not heroes to you?"

I'm growing up now.

I walk in flats mostly because I'll fall down if I wear heels for too long.

The foot I put forward isn't always my best one, and sometimes I trip over it.

I forget to put on makeup more than half of the time, and when I do, I forget to wipe it off at night.

I've cut my hair short in silent rebellion.

Recently, I clumsily cracked out of my cocoon and looked at myself just to see a woman looking back at me.

Not a woman who has it all together, no. 

Not a woman that Society hangs out with on the weekend.

A woman who cries too often and, at the same time, not often enough.

A woman who breaks sometimes and forgets to pick up all of the my pieces when I leave.

A woman who can achieve what she believes.

A woman.

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Sepia Tone

Sepia Tone

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

(dedicated to the man in the theatre who was all alone.)

You dream in sepia tone.

Lines on the screen;

words like sand by the sea.

One step closer to color than she.

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Em

Em

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

You are a boy with rainbows in your pockets and stars in your eyes.

 A boy with a big mouth and a big heart, who stumbles over his big feet, falling in slow motion.

Except when it comes to her.

We all saw you fall faster than the speed of light when she danced into your life.

And what a pretty dancer she is.

You tried to keep up, but your long limbs prevented you.

You've never been a quitter,

but you have trouble with the eight counts.

Her decisions change faster than she twirls, and you are left crying while she sits a foot away.

Don't let your heart deflate in the same way that your shoulders do when you hear her waltzy laugh.

Your shoulders were born broad. Let them be.

She is not your fault. She is your victory.

There are millions of dancers in this world.

You just met the wrong one first.

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