Blue Skies

I am absolutely addicted to writing poetry, and trying to force sleep is not really working. My nightly routine has been as follows; at 10:00 its usually lights out at home so I lay in bed until about 11:00pm, keeping myself occupied with books, music and the occasional PSYCH episode. I brush my teeth, comb my hair, take my contacts out then put the glasses on for another hour or so of reading...Then come midnight my fingers start getting restless, and my thoughts start bubbling and before I know it I have crept into the unoccupied bedroom next door to mine, having turned on every light switch I pass by on my way to that very destination, which mind you is positioned less than a foot away from my bedroom door, paranoia? Possibly. Then, after sitting there for a while, I usually realize I left my laptop in my room, so I scurry back to retrieve it ------AND, yes I am literally scurrying because I have never felt comfortable quietly pacing in the dark, its far too confident when all I can see is what I can hear. When I am finally situated, and my angst is released as I am typing away, It feels so fulfilling. Its strange that sometimes I don't really think about what I'm writing. I just write.

Tonight was was one of those nights that everything came out like word vomit. It's very different from my usual style which is definitely structured and organized. I hate the idea of not having a rhyme scheme at all, but as I'm reading and rereading the poem, it feels like its just the way its supposed to be.

Disclaimer: This is a fictional poem.

Blue

Nicole’Eve Jalipa

It was when I was walking,

Walking with my father

That I could see with my eyes

the blue-print in action.

When I was three; I was sitting,

Sitting on his shoulders---

But still walking

Higher than everyone else.

He would walk to the market on Union

Where we could find an

Old man selling his petunias,

While his wife held a basket of fruit,

“A pound of berries for your daughter?”

“---Why not? After all, they are blue.”

When I was 6; I was swimming.

Swimming where the water hit my waist

But I pretended it was much deeper,

And when I wanted to be brave

I would swim to my father,

And even when his back was turned away,

He was already getting ready for me

To jump on and leech onto his back.

Then, I was crying,

Crying just because I could.

At that age it seemed like

Crying was the closest I could get

To saying sorry and showing I was blue.

And he was wiping,

Wiping my blue, blue tears

When they would steam.

Wiping,

Wiping my blue, blue sweat

When it would leak out of my

Tired pores.

But when I was walking,

Walking away from the wooden seats

Of Central Park,

Walking away from the miles of words at STRANDS,

Walking away from the rancid subway

seats stained with gum and sharpie---

I was alone.

It wasn’t three anymore when I had a shoulder to sit on.

It wasn’t six anymore when I had a back waiting, and ready to be my rescue.

And there were no tears, no sweat.

---None---

Just me, sitting, and walking, and swimming in that,

That Blue, blue sky.