Yellow Light

Yellow Light

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

You make me think of that quick little moment before the yellow light turns red.

The moment that can make even the meekest among us bold.

That moment where you decide to either commit full on or to jump ship.

You remind me of the turn of the century.

How suddenly, the number 99 makes people realize the weight of time;

when suddenly, the unknown seems more dangerous than the mundane every day.

You make me think of flirting with danger;

something I've become rather good at.

I run yellow lights all the time.

I was born in a 99.

But I can't find a conclusion: not for this poem, and not for you.

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Virginia, Goodbye

Virginia, Goodbye

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Goodbye for now, but not forever.

I promise I won't forget you; never.

Your rainy days on DOG street,

your shell pathways crunching under my feet.

Waking up with you was easy, no worry,

and nothing ever felt hurried.

Hidden bookstores and half finished tea;

those are things that will never leave me.

So, Freedom, felt strong and clear,

I will revisit you another year.

Virginia, goodbye for now, but not forever.

Please don't forget me, ever.

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List

List

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Once, you told me you had a list of facts about me saved onto your phone.

I wonder if that disappeared once I did.

I am sorry; I am the only thing that has ever been completely my own.

I wanted to be the person you dreamed that I was, but why pretend something if you already know it will never be real?

I am not afraid of heights. I am afraid of falling.

No,

excuse me...

stupid auto correct.

I am afraid of failing.

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To The People Who Look for the Invisible

To The People Who Look for the Invisible 

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

The soft look in your eyes contradicts the way they can cut through the bullshit.

You have the eyes of an eagle, but with the grace of a swan.

While some of us only ever see the shadows, you look knowingly towards the sun.

You are a warrior for others; someone who Life drafted into the business of saving.

I marvel at the way you notice the faded scars on the wrists of busy-bodies. 

I revel in the way you can detect the patterns that piano fingers quietly beat onto tabletops. 

I have learned life lessons from the way you can read between lines.

I have discovered that unearthing the muddy truth is not something you try to do; you are simply doing what you were made to do.

Speaking as someone who is good at hiding: thank you for respectfully invading my privacy.

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