Eye Contact

Eye Contact

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I don't give up.

Not on things;

Not on people.

But,

if I'm going to keep running after you,

I need you to at least give me a sign that I am running towards something worth while.

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Thought #88

Thought #88

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Wouldn't it be crazy cool if we could handle this situation like the adults that we are?

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If You Don't Believe in Magic...

If You Don't Believe in Magic...

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

...pay attention to the way shriveled up fingers come to life as they dance across piano keys.

...study the way people band together to comfort one another after an unspeakable tragedy occurs.

...look at the lines of concentration that are drawn onto the foreheads of those who create,

as they try to find just the right word,

to get the drawing right,

to sew the hem perfectly.

Have you ever spoken to a girl right after she has been kissed for the first time?

Have you seen the way her eyes light up, and how her dreams of Spring weddings and her plans for the future perch themselves atop her blushing cheeks?

Have you ever heard a baby laugh as their father plays a game of peekaboo with them?

Now, if that isn't magic...I don't know what is.

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Discovery #13

Discovery #13

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

You don't owe him anything.

Not your time.

Not your energy.

He doesn't deserve the little corner of your heart that you so desperately want to give to him.

You owe him nothing.

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Battery Park

Battery Park

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

You can tell a true New Yorker by the tread on their boots and the way they walk fearlessly in front of cars when crossing the street.

This city breathes with you.

I'd even venture to say that it has dreams of its own.

The people here speak a language comprised of coffee orders and the names of subway stations.

Walking down Wall Street, it smells like bagels and money, with a hint of curry wafting over from the food carts parked on the busy streets.

Some skyscrapers go on forever.

Most taxi drivers honk their horns too often.

Some of the subway cars have poems written on the walls, and some of the parks look like they're straight out of European storybooks.

Crosswalks become community centers; metro cards are the common denominators in a kaleidoscope of people.

This is where you realize just how big the world is.

This is where the world starts to make you feel claustrophobic.

Everyone remembers their first time in the city.

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13707 Embassy Row

13707 Embassy Row

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I wonder how many of our tears the pavement of this parking lot has soaked up over the years.

This is where we've given people nicknames that no one else understands; where we've worried about things that didn't matter while ignorantly wringing our hands,

wishing on stars and hoping for better tomorrows.

I don't have the remedy to all of your sorrows.

I don't know why it's the good people who get screwed over.

I don't think we'll ever be able to walk down back roads without nervously looking over our shoulders to see if mistakes are lurking behind us.

Look at how much we've changed.

Think of the times we complained about trivial things; boys who didn't know our names and how certain pairs of jeans make us look fat.

We were never taught that the way adults cope is by learning not to care.

No one told me that calluses aren't optional; they're necessary.

Funny how, over a dinner of sour straws and Oreo cookies, we learned the most important lesson of all...

Life is more than just a little messy and not everyone is in it for the long haul.

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The One About New York

The One About New York

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

So the thing about New York;

The city is so big that it starts to feel small,

there are so many people that it seems like you're alone,

And there are so many fingerprints left over from the past paired with so much movement towards the future that you are forced to live in the present moment.

I know.

It sounds like a contradiction.

But, trust me...it makes so much sense.

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