by Carrie Teresa Sage


The Warmest of the Four Seasons


stationed in the driveway
summer had just begun
love on Northwest Blvd.
hiding out, closing the door softly
locking it, so no one intruded
smiling at you
you hit play and the summer began
Jim Morrison always knew us
how we were with each other-
"Morrison Hotel", Track 10
he played our hearts out
we held each other
hot in the sun
eating watermelon
spitting the seeds at one another
we smiled up at the sun-
not knowing that it would go down,
and take us with it.




Little Miracles In Violet



About 80 miles west of Lexington is a field covered only with purple violets--
an occasional swing set--
we sat there looking up at the sky twidiling those little miracles between our fingers,
before we slipped back into reality
and had to go home
I kept one purple fixation
of that day--
dried it and pressed it down onto my photo album
now dusty and old I retrieve it to see if it is the same as it was years ago--
and it is--
it's frail and of the past, just as you now are
If I close my eyes, and wish on a clover, I'd be in the lushness
of that field
asking you to talk non-stop
just to hear each creation of sound come from your mouth--
something that only angels can hear now.



Untitled

I keep pictures in my wallet,
you smiling at me, I knew I was in trouble. Seems like yesterday that we talked.
Remember when I thought your jacket was bad luck in my car, and your
new girlfriend had to come to my house and get it?
That was a knee slapper.
What exactly is an indian summer anyway?
I wonder what they will do with the "vase" I made for you in art class of 94.
Probably put it in some box in the closet, because your things will be
too painful to spend time on. Sometimes when I leave school each day,
I wonder if you are watching me--from up there,
smiling and rubbing your chin, ever so proud to be free.

Young Angels

Who was it that stood on a ledge and said "I want to be a butterfly when I die
so I can come back and fly away"
Was it my mother? Did I read it somewhere?
You just looked at me and smiled, and said
"death makes angels of us all"
hearing you say that always sent chills up my spine
The day those words were written in my locker I felt even colder...
They replaced the picture that Ms. Garrison took of us in Art class
I knew you were gone, and leaving me behind was no problem

I kept that note, slept with it under my pillow
I thought about it all the time,
you came back again, making that note true, never thought we would be angels
we were too young
now you come in my dreams
with your poetic expressions and uncomprehensive language;
I don't understand you.
You try and take me with you back to where ever you are now.
You beckon me, needing me for shelter, one last time.


The Visitor

1.
Driving out of your way
mischievously smiling as your feet top the steps
the knock--
always made my heart swell and my stomach lean on one side
you were never supposed to be there
whether he said so or she asked you not to,
you still came, and I still let you in
you were always coming around, maybe it was that quarter we threw in the pond
at Natural Bridge working its mojo on us--
after all, we made a promise.

2.
Now you do not come, and the door knob is dusty,
it's my turn to visit;
you will be expecting me
and waiting there in the field,
underneath your name.

About the poet...

I am Native American, and I am twenty-two (22) years old. I grew up in a small town. At a very young age, I began writing poetry, and I concentrated in Poetry while completing my English degree, and I couldn't have enjoyed anything other than that. I have also thought of poetry as the backbone of expression. My favorite poet is Sylvia Plath. I love her imagery and sharp tone.

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