Getting Better

Getting Better

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

My arms are a lot bigger than they used to be.

I only cringed a little bit as I wrote the previous sentence.

Full disclosure: sometimes, I scroll through my old Facebook profile pictures and wonder if other people see the subtle differences between then and now like I do.

My waist is a few inches bigger than it used to be.

The veins in my neck are less prominent.

My jawbone looks a little bit softer now.

You can't count all of my ribs anymore.

To me, all of those things are not-so-tiny victories.

It pains me to think that others see them as setbacks. 

Or that they don't see them at all.

I ate two whole pieces of pizza while I was out in public the other day.

I didn't try to hide it, and I stood tall when I went back for seconds.

No one said a thing, but my mom smiled proudly at me.

Look at how far I've come.

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Saturday Evening

Saturday Evening

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Silly boy, don't you realize that you are gasoline and I am a fire that is in need of more fuel?

Together, we burn bright. 

That's true.

But if no one is there to supervise,

we could reduce entire forests to ash with our mistakes.

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Heartache and Paint Stains

Heartache and Paint Stains

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

You know what I hate about this crummy town?

It is stained all over with the colors of others.

It's like a canvas after someone knocked over the paint bin.

Once, a blank slate; now, a masterpiece. Or a tragedy. Sometimes both.

There are some things that you can't get stains out of, no matter how hard you try.

Sidewalks

Jungle gyms

coffee shops

picnic tables

libraries

lips

That's just to name a few.

No matter what you try, you can't bleach fingerprints out of them.

You can throw away soiled clothing, but memories are a little harder to get rid of.

My friends say that time will bring me clarity.

I don't need that.

What I need is space that is free of hand-me-down mistakes, so that I can make some new ones.

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Mr. Mark

Mr. Mark

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Once, a blind man sat next to me as we waited to board the same plane.

I helped guide him from his seat and to the check in desk when no one else would.

Out of all the stories sitting close to me, his was the one I wanted to know the most.

I wondered where he was going.

I wondered where he called home.

I wondered who he loved and who loved him.

He made me realize how much I rely on sight; how easily I take for granted the ability to see the people I am talking to; how careless my steps are.

I wondered if he ever wishes that he could see, or if he is content in a world made up of voices and soundbites.

Maybe he wouldn't change a thing, even if he had the option to.

His laugh was loud and boisterous.

I hope he thought that mine was as well.

I had been worried about not wearing makeup, but he helped me to remember what really mattered.

"Thank you so much. Sometimes people don't want to help me."

Not me, sir. I want to help you again and again.

I want to make you laugh that boisterous laugh and smile that bright smile.

I want to be a window of generosity to you.

I want to give you a glimpse of what is good and right in this world.

You have absolutely given me one.

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Poetry With Meaning (Not Just Words)

Poetry With Meaning (Not Just Words)

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I want you to be blunt and to the point when you speak to me.

Honesty is something that I search for in people.

But at the same time, please be gentle when you tell me things.

I have taped myself back together so many times that I need to be handled with care.

I am sorry if I am asking too much of you.

I am aware that I can be a handful.

It's just that sometimes, my heart aches at the idea of having to live a life without you in it;

that's why I'm trying to slip you cheat sheets in the form of poetry.

It would probably help if I told you that they were meant for you, huh?

I am not always good at honesty, but let me give it a try:

I want you to understand me.

I want you to see me for who I am.

I want you to want to see more of who I am.

I want you to want to know me like the back of your hand.

I will give you all of the answers.

Just, please...ask me the questions.

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Imperfection, So Perfect

Imperfection, So Perfect

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

If you Google search images of the Grand Canyon, you will see proof that the Earth, in all its beauty, has stretch marks.

Go YouTube videos of Mt. St. Helens erupting during the era of Michael Jackson and shoulder pads.

Nature has mood swings too.

In the winter, birds leave their homes and look for a place that is warmer in order to find comfort.

Sometimes, you have to leave in order to find comfort.

Clouds cry.

Winds can be destructive.

Branches fall when they are being weighed down by too much.

Approximately 5 million people a year travel to see one of Earth's stretch marks so that they can gasp at its wonder; yet, we continue to cover up our own.

Are we afraid that someone might look at our imperfections and think that they are beautiful?

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Holding the Sky and Other Extreme Sports

Holding the Sky and Other Extreme Sports 

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Do you ever sit on the floor of your bathroom and just cry?

I do.

I let the water run so that the tears can run down my face.

Then, the ceiling collapses on top of me.

In Greek mythology, Atlas was condemned to a life of holding the Sky on his shoulders for the rest of forever.

Some people think he held the World, but no...the Sky weighs much more.

I understand his burden.

The moon is 238,900 miles away.

If I could make the time, I'd fly there.

Envision storm clouds clashing with sun rays.

That is how I feel.

A juxtaposition of a soul.

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