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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Worth

Worth

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

You deface a dollar bill and you commit a crime.

Yet, at the end of the day, that bill will be fine.

You can cut, you can tear, you can break it down;

You can burn, you can crush, throw it to the ground...

yet that dollar bill is still worth all that it's worth.

Green and soft, stamped with the faces of History.

How it can go through so much and not degrade itself is still a mystery,

but that dollar is still worth all that it's worth.

You deface yourself and you commit a crime,

and unlike a dollar, you will not be fine.

You cut, you starve, you put yourself down;

You burn, you cry, you fall to the ground...

yet you are still worth all that you are worth.

Beautiful and bright, a part of History.

How you can't see it? To me, that is still a mystery,

but you are still worth all that you are worth.

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Smelling Like Smoke

Smelling Like Smoke

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

He,

smells like cigarettes and wasted dreams.

She, 

smells like a bonfire and a million regrets.

Both of them,

burning.

Two different outcomes.

Two different stories,

but they both smell like smoke when they get home.

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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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