Gray

     I hate gray. Not so much as a color, but as an atmosphere. Certain grays shut me down...cause my internal doors to close. 

     But, there are acceptable grays... grays that open me up, that bring contentment to the surface...

     The gray of driving down a lonely, empty road in the fog. The sun, not yet above the invisible horizon. No other headlights coming at you as proof of life. Just you. Pure, untouched solitude. That's a good gray. 

     Then there's the gray of a walk in the woods on a drizzly day. But that gray is made better by the green and brown aromas. The wet earth, the dead leaves, moss, soggy lichen on a fallen branch. It's not a bad gray. 

     My personal favorite gray would find me walking along a rocky shore on an overcast day, particularly just before a storm. The wind whipping through my hair, leaving it damp and salty. Seabird tracks in the sand with my own. Clouds rolling in and over. Waves breaking over rocks. The air tickles your nose with it's stormy effervescence. It is in those gray windswept moments that I can feel the earth. It's majesty undeniable. I am whole. Every cell humming with something I can't really name. That's the best gray. 

     Today, if the sun comes out, I'll sit on my porch steps and turn my face up to my patch of blue and let all the yellow soak into my soul. 

~ Kim

(This was written and posted originally in That Curious Love of Green - Creativity Salon in November of 2015)

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Her

She's so much more than he knows. 

Deeper than he dreams. 

Smarter than he fears. 

She is formidable. 

Not calm. 

And adventurous. 

Not acquiescent.

She won't whisper. 

She'll rage. 

She doesn't heal. 

She'll roar. 

She's a warrior, a lover.  

Intelligent and ridiculous. 

She's the moon, 

And all the fish in the sea. 

She is more, 

So much more.

-Kim 

Another...

Untitled

Don't you dare

Look at me that way. 

With that smirk on your face

And your knowing eyes

You weren't there. 

Don't you dare

Measure my life

With your own ruler. 

I've given inches

Had miles stolen

And not returned

Don't you dare

You can't possibly know

The days of my years

The nights of my life

It's not what you think

But it is what it is. 

You weren't there

So don't you dare.

-Kim

A poem

Him

If I say I have no regrets

That might not be entirely true. 

He was married. 

I was not. 

We were friends

And then we were more. 

He travelled. 

We saw each other 

Only sometimes. 

And phone calls

Just checking in. 

I loved him, but not enough 

To want him daily. 

He was easy. 

Because he was hers. 

Not mine. 

But one day he showed up

At my door 

With sorrow and confusion

Sitting on his shoulders 

Like a heavy winter coat. 

I'm dying

He said. 

She's being selfish, worrying

About what her life will be 

Without me. 

I'm the one dying. 

I can't hold her up  

Because I'm crumbling. 

But I need to keep

All my pieces together. 

He sat on my steps

And cried tough guy tears. 

And in that moment

I fell in love with his

Dying soul. 

I drove him away 

On a foggy morning. 

'You mean the world to me.' 

The last words I heard him speak. 

All these years later

I know that sometimes

The world isn't enough. 

That regrets are floating there

In the fog. 

- kjsmith

Snow in Salt Air

     A little more than twenty years ago, I spent an entire week on a small island off the coast of Rhode Island ...in January.

     Alone.

     Just to think. 

 

     I arrived on a ferry the day after a severe ice storm. I remember the huge ropes they used had been dragged inside the ferry to thaw out from being frozen solid. Normally, I would be outside up in the bow feeling the boat hit the waves and dodging hungry seagulls. But it was still ridiculously cold and the deck was icy. So I rode inside, the only person on the ferry besides the crew. I think maybe the mail travelled with me. 

     It was a small island. Upon arrival the ferry captain offered to make a call to find me a ride, but as I could actually see my accommodation from the harbor, I declined and walked, dragging my wheeled suitcase behind me over the slippery road. 

     I stayed, mostly alone, in a three story Victorian Bed and Breakfast.  My only real companion was the owners big orange cat. I only closed and locked my door when I left for the day, so the cat took to hanging out in my room and even slept on my bed a night or two. The owners daughter came in each morning to check on me and make sure I had everything I needed for the 'breakfast' part of the deal. I wouldn't have cared if she showed up at all. There was a pub or two open where I'd eat my dinner most nights, and a small grocery store.
 

     I spent the week reading and wandering the island...Took a stroll to the island cemetery where I found graves from the 17th century and deer tracks in the snow. At some point in the week I stopped by the local library and they knew who I was...'the girl who's been walking the island'. 

     One day, I walked to the cliff side. At the top of the cliffs you can look out across the Atlantic. The sun was filtered through clouds, making it look like moonlight in midday. I took off my winter hat so the wind off the ocean could blow through my hair. It was my personal earthly heaven. 

     However, my favorite moment was on about the third day. Walking on the beach, bundled up from the cold, I looked down and saw the only footprints in the sand belonged to me and the seabirds. Then as I walked, it began to snow. I spun around and around on the sand with my arms out wide, taking it in...enraptured.  It was a gray day, yet it sparkled...with beauty...with possibility. The smell of snow in salt air is now indelibly printed on my writer's soul...yet words can never fully explain. 

     Breathing in salt air brings clarity. When I left the island eight days later, I knew I was going to head off into a new life...alone...centered...sure of my power. 

-Kim