Little Feet

Little Feet

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Little feet and grown up voices.

David, your world is full of choices.

My wish for you as you grow old:

I hope that you stay loud and bold.

I hope you paint the world anew,

As you become a better you.

This world needs a little spice,

To stop and make it think twice.

You can be that if you dare,

And change the world because you care.

I know that you will paint the world anew,

As you become a bigger you.

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Gina

Gina

A poem by Brigid Cooley

When you go out and gold pan for people who are worthy of your love,

please do not be afraid if you come up short.

It is a long process; to unearth things that glitter.

Do not be discouraged when your hands are empty.

It is not failure that you see...it is learning that things of importance take time.

Understand that your boots will be muddied before you are done here;

Understand that sometimes you may have to move a little further upstream.

Though sometimes the water is murky, have faith that the dust will settle.

One day, you will find people who are priceless; people whose hearts beat in time with yours.

And if that day doesn't come fast enough, take a break long enough to look down at the sunflowers that are growing by your feet.

You are surrounded by beauty,

and isn't that the best feeling?

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Claire

Claire

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

If I could give you anything, it would be the promise that there will always be a romantic movie at your disposal, and a good book in your hand.

I am grateful to have witnessed the way your blue eyes light up at the thought of first kisses and yellow scarves.

You are a friend to the past,

a lover of the vintage.

I am not claiming to be a fortune teller, but I predict that your future will be full of coffee stained notebook pages and quiet little glances that can easily be taken for granted.

I cannot give you everything. I cannot give you even half of what you deserve.

But I can promise that I will always have a place for you; that I will always think of you when I order chocolate croissants and when I secretly tuck movie ticket stubs into my purse.

Isn't it wonderful, to give love freely, and with the confidence that you will receive it back?

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Lines from Half Written Memories and Forgotten Feelings

Lines from Half Written Memories and Forgotten Feelings

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Once upon a time,

there was a girl who loved more than most and cried harder than many...

I've got to get back to rhyming,

And working on my poetic timing...

I want a "stay in the car until the song ends" kind of love...

Picture this: I'm walking through a mall on a Friday, and suddenly, I smell you;

the smell of old leather boots and aftershave...

If you wonder where she'll be,

you can find her by the sea...

It's cute, how your tongue gets twisted on your own jokes.

There is no such thing as silence. 

Somehow, there will always be noise...

If a piece of clothing could tell a story, I'd love to hear its tale...

What if the world wore a paid of glasses, for just a day?

I don't think things would be the same...

I write fairytales and first kisses that I don't believe in... 

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Polaroid

Polaroid 

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Just because your colors are muted,
Doesn't mean that you are dull.
It doesn't matter what he concluded,
As long as your heart is full. 

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Definition:

Definition:

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I have a Pinterest board dedicated to words.
Eccedentesiast: noun; someone who hides pain behind a smile.

I believe that words define people, even if we don't want them to.
Lacuna: noun; a blank space, a missing part.

We are all walking storybooks.
Solivagant: verb; wandering alone.

We all have lines that need to be read between.
Lypophrenia: noun; feeling of sadness, seemingly without any cause.

But we never stop long enough to find them.
Adronitis: noun; frustration with how long it takes to get to know someone.




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Serendipity

Serendipity

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I was born on a rainy day in January.

My grandma says I was a winter rose.

That was almost my middle name.

I grew up on mud pies and country songs;

I became a hoarder of books.

And now, here I am...puddle jumping to conclusions.

I wish I could fly.

I wish I could feel the raindrops against my wings as I look down on skyscrapers.

When I find "the guy",

I do not want him to promise me rainbows.

I want him to promise me that when it rains, he will leave the umbrella at home;

he will ask me to dance in the street and twirl me around so that the light of the street lamp close by blurs into a sunny horizon.

I do not want the polished, the put together.

I want the refurbished, the broken made new.

I want the rainy Wednesday's spent sitting in the car, listening to the music the storm around us composes.

Just for us.

I want to count the raindrops that are trapped in his eyelashes and to kiss away his tears.

I need grey skies and melancholy lullabies.

I need sopping hair and goosebumpy arms.

Leave the umbrella behind.

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